Redefinition
by RaysenTra
Summary: In this sequel to 'Wolves', Wesley joins the powerful sect known as the Circle of the Black Thorn. But, are his intentions what they seem, or is there something bigger in the works?
1. Prologue

Prologue:

It's been six days already. I'm still not sure I understand what happened, but things have changed. Nothing is the same anymore.

I'm afraid. Afraid that even in this I could fail again. But I have to be strong... it's what I was born to do. That's the one comforting thought that flies trough my head.

I'm standing here in silence... waiting to be judged by those who hold sway of humanity. I will be part of them... I will have control... we worked too hard for this to fail and I will not rest until it's done.

I gave my word. That is all I can do...


	2. Chapter I: Judgement

Chapter I: Judgment.

He walks slowly. The atmosphere reeks of uncertainty. He approaches a large circle emitting light, cautiously examining it.

As he steps inside he feels suddenly uplifted. He takes a deep breath and looks around, trying to decipher something from the small silhouettes that can be seen staring around him. He feels their eyes trying to cut through his skin. Desperately scouring for answers in regards to his intentions.

He has proven worthy. He has accomplished a great deal in his life, but these past months have been exemplary. They took notice... they always do.

He stands quietly... waiting for his judge to come to him. He stretches his neck and cracks his knuckles by sporadically forming fists. He doesn't panic... he doesn't fear them. He has proven himself to them and though some still question his motives... they know his soul is a part of them... of it.

From the shadows a large hooded creature appears. The robe that shrouds him is dark... it's color barely understandable. He looks at it and marvels at how it looks like it's blood-red in a moment, then at second glance it looks blacker than the darkness that surrounds him.

He kneels before the judge as it begins its approach.

"You are born of flesh," the robed creature begins. "Blood flows trough you. It gives you life. It delivers you unto death. It defines who you are.

He rests his left hand on his head, revealing a large black ring tattooed on the top of his hand.

"You come to us worthy. You deliver yourself into the Circle. You have proven yourself mighty among those that are lower and you wield your power through chaos.

He puts his hand on his shoulder and Wesley stands up.

"The Circle embraces its new brother. Your blood is our blood. Your life is our life. A thorn rises from deep within the Earth."

He grabs Wesley's left hand and stabs it with a small, thin wooden stake. Wes cringes from the pain but remains otherwise calm. He can feel the Judge looking at him from inside his cloak. He releases Wesley's hand and takes a step back.

Wes falls to his knees grasping desperately at his hand. The wound closes slowly, burning a dark circle engrossed by thorns on the top of his hand. He bites his lower lip furiously as he looks at the mark on his hand.

He stands up a knee at a time, casually massaging his hand. He looks at the Judge as he steps towards him. He lifts his cloak from over his head, revealing Archduke Sebassis underneath.

"Welcome to the fold," he says with a discreet smirk on his lips.

Then, by cue, the lights turn on revealing a large Coliseum-like stadium with them standing right in the middle. Surrounding them are countless demons of almost every unimaginable kind.

They stand to their feet and raise their left-hands in salute to their new brother.

The Circle lives. It has embraced its new thorn.


	3. Chapter II: Halloween in July

Chapter II: Halloween in July.

The elevator door opens. He takes a few steps into the cold and dark apartment, taking his jacket off as he straddles in. He drops it on a nearby couch and walks into his room.

He takes a close look at the bed and feels awkward. Then, shaking his head, he walks over to his desk and takes out his wallet, cell-phone and keys and drops them. He takes off his wrist-watch and leaves it beside his keys.

He sits on the table, facing the oddly obscure view of Los Angeles and unties his shoes. He shakes them off and stands back up. He steps into the unnecessarily large bathroom, opening the first three buttons of his shirt then sliding it from over his head. He drops it on the floor and walks into the shower and slides the curtain close. He throws his pants, socks and other unmentionables over the curtains and walks to the farthest spigot from his room there is in that large shower, then slowly turns it on to Cold.

As the first spurt of water falls on his body, he feels it naturally quiver in response. He grasps his left hand and stares at the circle embedded on it. He closes his eyes and it's suddenly two weeks ago.

He feels the cold grip of the gun in his hand... its sway over him. He sees the man in front of him... a poor, frightened and withered man scouring for answers as to why must he die after trying so hard to atone for his past sins. His life gone in the blink of an eye. The man he could have called friend.

He feels the bullet fly out of the chamber. An object so very small. It's hard to put it on words... most times he can't even understand that it even happened.

'It seemed like only yesterday...'

He let's go of his hand and looks at the water falling on his face. He closes his eyes and sees the look on his "friend's" face. It's not denial. It's not anger. It's regret.

He takes a step closer to the body and he feels the joy emanate from the man behind him. He stares at him blankly as the blood turns darker. He turns around slowly without turning his gaze from him and as he takes the first steps towards the stairwell on the roof he's startled by Lindsey's cold stare.

He's taken aback momentarily and opens his eyes. The water is still running its course through his body. He holds his hand again and then turns the shower off. He turns around and finds Lindsey looking at him at the other end of the shower. Blood is flowing from a single gunshot wound to his forehead. Wesley blinks and, as he opens his eyes, finds he's alone.

The thorn in his hand burns. His conscience stabs his heart with the cold blade of guilt.

After an hour and several minutes not worth counting, he steps out of the back seat of a black-colored Bentley. He scrapes his feet against the dry cement underneath his shoes. He raises his glare and feels a cold burn of electricity run through his spinal chord. He looks at the moon shine over gargoyles poised along the roof of a large, gothic mansion. Their hideous expressions too hard to discern from his point of view, he ponders calmly whilst staring blankly into their eyes, as if it they saw right through him from afar, judging him and laughing.

He takes a few steps away from the car when he feels a hand pat him slowly on the back. He continues to stare at the gargoyles as Hamilton stands beside him. "Mohkra demons," says Hamilton leaning towards his ear, "Served high-ranking demons as their guard-dogs after they took control during the power vacuum left by the Old One's exit from our world. Very efficient for protection, but by all means as dumb as rocks."

"Being extinct doesn't help a bit either," Wes responds looking in disdain towards them.

Hamilton smiles and crackles softly. "No. It certainly doesn't."

Wesley looks at the uninviting double oak doors in the front of the house. Hamilton notices Wesley's hesitation in entering and takes a deep breath. "Having second thoughts, sir?"

"No... not really, no. Just--"

"Nervous?"

Wesley takes a deep breath and exhales quickly. He scratches his beard softly then wipes his mouth. He tries to keep his composure in a desperate attempt to maintain his position against Hamilton. "Perhaps," he says after a few moments. "I feel like I'm giving an oral report in High School dressed as a hot dog."

"Well... as long as you come with all the trimmings you should be perfectly fine."

Wesley scoffs, then says, "Yes, I'm sure having sauerkraut spread all over my head will help me get my act together before they realize I'm hesitating."

Hamilton grins. "Oh, I'm sure it won't... but at least it'd distract them while you're at it."

Wes looks at him with a hint of surprise in his eyes. "You're dabbling with humor now?"

"Makes me look more accessible," says Hamilton, fixing his tie. Wesley chuckles quietly then looks back at the building in front of him. He walks up the steps towards the door. Hamilton knocks twice and in seconds the door opens. A large, light-green colored demon in a tuxedo opens the door, bowing before Wesley as he steps aside.

"Welcome, gentlemen," says the Butler as he rises. "The Circle awaits your arrival." They enter pushing everything that might constitute as second thoughts out of their minds. Wesley walks a couple of steps ahead of Marcus as they enter the Grand Hall. Members of the Circle mingle with each other to the sounds of the 18th century while they drink decades-old Dom. Wesley takes a deep breath and before he can process a coherent thought the room is filled with an engrossing whistle. From across the room a tall devil with skin as crimson as blood claps his hands with enthusiasm.

"Hey baby, would you look at what the cat dragged in tonight!"

Wesley looks slightly over his shoulder then back at the devil as he approaches him, followed by two voluptuous blondes.

Wesley bows with a smile in his face. "Lord Izzeriel."

Izzy scoffs and shakes his head grinning. "Cut that lordship crap with me, kid," he says slapping Wesley in the arm. "I'll have to gouge your eyes out if you did. Call me Izzy... everybody does. Want a glass of the fizzy stuff?"

Wes smiles in compliance and Izzy snaps his fingers at a butler nearby carrying a tray on his hand. The waiter walks up to them and Izzy puts his glass on the tray then proceeds to take two. He hands one to Wes and drinks from the other.

"Lovely companions," Wes says smiling at the women. "Guards?"

Izzy chuckles. "Hell, no," he finally says. "Picked 'em up at 'Fuzzy, Pink Tails' before coming here. Thought I'd showed 'em a nice time before I eat 'em."

The girls giggle softly behind him. He moves closer to Wes then says to his ear, "Am I the only one under the impression that they think I'm kidding?"

Wes smiles. "It'll make for a nice surprise, I'm sure."

"Hey, you're not kidding, kid." Then looking over Wes' shoulders, "Hey, Hammy, how are you, boy?"

"Very good, Lord," says Hamilton with a smile. "Thank you."

"You got a nice kid here Wes," says Izzy raising his cup of champagne to him. "I know Hammy since he was a tyke... well, since he was twenty-five really, but still a just a tyke. You've come a long way, boy."

"Thank you, my Lord." Hamilton bows slightly as Wes looks at him from over his shoulder. He looks back at Izzy smirking.

"What about not calling you Lord?" says Wes.

"I'd have to gouge his eyes out if he doesn't call me that." He takes a moment to finish his drink then says, "Only my peers have the right to call me that... well, them and chicks like these... I hate it when they call me 'daddy'."

Wesley takes a casual sip of champagne, then says with a slight smirk, "Perfectly understandable."

Izzeriel takes a deep breath and puts his arm forcibly over Wesley's shoulders. "So? Have you met the rest of the bunch?"

"Can't say that I have. After the initiation ceremony I had to leave rather quickly."

"Nobody really stays long after the ceremony anyhow. They come, watch the newbie get their hand skewered and go. It's an old and boring tradition that the elders insist on putting every sap that comes our way through."

"Yes, I have to say I agree. The whole voyeuristic aspect of it tends to be somewhat bothersome to shy people such as myself."

"Mmm... Wouldn't know. There weren't that many of us when I started."

"When did you start?"

"You mean here? Or in the Circle per se?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well... I got inducted as a thorn longer than I care to remember, but I've been stationed here since a little before Wolfram & Hart opened here in L.A."

Wes looks around at all the different demons and creatures mingling in the room. The entire scenario seems intriguingly picturesque to him, yet he can't shake the uncertainty from himself. Izzy notices and smiles.

"This ain't the full roster, kid," he says. "The Circle's too big. Sebassis, Vail and myself are directorial heads of this branch."

"Which would be...?" asks Wesley, half expecting the answer.

"Hell-A and all its fuzzy neighbors. The true capital of the U.S. of A."

Wesley smiles. He looks about the room again, and for a moment every fear, every thought of denial, every concern, every single feeling of weakness become one. Then nothing. For the first time since he ventured into his current path he has no doubt in his mind that it was worth the risks and the pain it had caused him.

"This... this is just so..."

He tries to talk, but his overpowering emotions don't allow him. Izzeriel smiles at him. A smile of arrogance and triumph disguised as empathetic encouragement.

"Overwhelming?"

"Remarkably so," responds Wesley, arching his back as he draws breath.

"Well, boy, you're breathing the air of the mighty... and that'd be 'cause you're part of it."

Wesley looks at him, honored by the remark.

"And with the Partners giving you the reigns of the L.A. branch of the firm... it's not gonna be long till you're trading places with Sebassis."

"The archduke? I thought he was the most influential member of The Circle?"

"He's a figure-head. Archduke Sebassis' influence is in his legacy. Guy's got armies of followers, kiddo. Plural. But everything else about him is just superficial. Vail's the true power here. Problem is he mostly keeps to himself."

Wes looks over Izzy and notices a small figure standing in the balcony at the other side of the Hall. He drinks down what little remains of the champagne and looks back at Izzy.

"Anyways, kid," continues Izzeriel, "this is your night. The ceremony is just tradition, like I told you... this is the true initiation. If you make it through the night in one piece, you'll be good from here to eternity. And that I mean literally."

Wesley chuckles, "Sounds good."

"Should be... plus, you get to hang with me all night. And there's no goddamn downside to that."

"Definitely not," Wesley says smiling as Izzy pats him in the back.

"Good," Izzy smirks as he leads Wes across the Great Hall. "Then let's get at it, kid. Still a long way to go till the night is over. And I promise that if you make yourself look good, I'll talk the Partners into lending you Lilah for the after-party party, eh?" He clicks his tongue and winks at him cockily.

Wesley and Izzy laugh together as they walk into the crowd of Thorns, followed closely by Hamilton. They greet people as they walk by, yet unbeknownst to them Wesley's being watched from afar. A smile curls in his lips as he gazes at him. Much potential he sees him.

Much to celebrate tonight.


	4. Chapter III: Purpose

Chapter III: Purpose.

He straddles around the grand hall looking into each of their faces as he passes them. They all greet him excitedly and he calmly smiles at each of them. Izzeriel tugs his shoulders enthusiastically as he speaks of him. He can feel a certain sense of pride coming from the sound of his voice, yet, as the hours pass, he feels more and more empty within.

The night goes on and the charades are kept all through it. The continuous pretensions, the dry laughter, the incredible sensation that tickles his hands like a thousand microscopic needles. He's nervous. He hoped he wouldn't be by now, but he is.

He grabs his left hand and slowly caresses the emblem of the Circle. He feels a light burning sensation emanating from it and looks at it. He stares at the symbol for what seems like minutes then he looks up to his companions.

"Excuse me," he says calmly interrupting. "I, uh... I'm going outside to get some air."

"The weight of your night getting to you, buddy?" asks Izzeriel smiling.

Wesley chuckles. "You could say that."

"Figured as much. Go out, kid... take a breather. There's still a long way to go."

Wesley bows to the other Circle members that were accompanying him and looks at Hamilton, who steps aside and allows him to pass to the balcony outside. As Marcus turns to follow him, Izzy slaps his shoulder.

"Hey, Hammy..." he drinks another glass of champagne, "...how's the wife?"

Hamilton's face brightens like the birth of a Super Nova. "Still dead, my Lord."

"Great to hear it. Send her my blessings when you see her, will ya?"

"It would be an honor, sir."

The voices dissipate into the din as Wesley steps out to the balcony. He's taken momentarily aback by the wind blowing fiercely through the night sky. He walks over to the farthest corner of the balcony and leans against it. He takes a couple of deep breathes and looks to his right.

A small figure stands beside him. His bright silver hair flowing against the wind. His frail, crimson hands cling to the cold steel serum wheeler. He takes deep, yet soft puffs of air, as if he were analyzing its intangible structure.

Wesley looks back to the darkness outside as his heart thumps overwhelmingly. He arches his back, and attempts to casually put his hands inside his pockets.

"You really shouldn't try to make impressions with your looks, boy," the frail Lord by his side tells him without turning his gaze.

Wesley coughs nervously, then stands straight again while turning towards him. "I apologize, my Lord," he says bowing. "I did not realize it was you who were here."

Vail turns to him with a simple smile crossing his face. "There's no need for formalities, boy. Your accomplishments alone merit my admiration and tribute."

A sigh of relief escapes Wesley for a moment. "You are too kind, my Lord."

Vail smiles at him then slowly makes his way towards him. "How do you take the celebration?"

Wesley sighs. "It's overwhelming, to say the least. I didn't realize how big a turn-out it would be."

"Everyone are always eager to get acquainted with the latest member of The Circle. It has been long since we last integrated another Thorn into our ranks. But perhaps the interest is more because a former Keeper is now amongst us."

Wesley looks at him unsure. "Keeper?"

"Of the Slayer," replies Vail as he looks towards the sky. "I believe they are currently denominating themselves as Watchers."

Wesley turns towards the crowd. He notices that some glance momentarily towards him. A sharp sensation of cold stabs his back and he's suddenly back at the Coliseum. Clinging to his hand as the thousands of invisible eyes that relished in his pain suddenly take shape under the light. Everything becomes clear to him.

"To bring a Keeper into The Circle is a great gamble from the Triad's part," continues Vail. "They have been watching you through our eyes for a very long time, boy. You have done an incredible feat in tipping the scales in our favor."

Vail laughs softly, extending his hand under a fly that had flown beside him. He closes his fingers upwardly and the fly dissipates like a puff of smoke before a fierce gush of wind. "Love truly is the most destructive force in Creation," he says glancing towards Wesley.

Wesley forces his gaze upon the gathered crowd. His heart sinks as if anchored by a thousand tons of weight. His thoughts travel, searching for those he had betrayed once again.

"Thinking of the fallen?" asks Vail.

Wesley rubs his eyes, taking a quiet moment. "I'm afraid so," he finally responds with a glint of sorrow in his eyes. "Their memory is too powerful to forget. I just wish I could push them away."

"I don't believe you do, my boy," replies Vail with a quaint smile. "Your memories drive your motives. The pain you have suffered. The guilt over your betrayal. Your doubts. They all have a purpose, my young Wesley."

He puts his hand over his shoulder as he continues. "They give you a direction, and allow you to rely in your strength. That is much more than many of them have. That is why the Triad chose you, and that is why you will wield true power now that you are one of us," he points to the crowd, "They are great soldiers from all around this planet, and almost every single one of them fears you. Because you are everything they hope and dread you will be."

Wesley looks at the mingling creatures with determination, while Vail turns to the sky. He draws breath with a calm that only a God can rival, relishing in the action of inhaling and savoring the cold and humid atmosphere. "Beautiful weather today," he finally says. "Radiant."

"Seems sort of hollow to me," responds Wesley somewhat confidently.

"On the contrary, young one," says Vail with a smile, "everything glows brighter than a star."

Wesley looks at him with intrigue and leans against the concrete railing in the balcony beside the small elder gazing at the dark. "What do you see?" he says intriguingly inquisitively.

Vail smirks, "Light, my boy. Beautiful light."


	5. Chapter IV: Monday

Chapter IV: Monday.

He's been waiting for hours. The walls, oddly, seem like hollow. As if underneath the surface there lies a Universe unto its own. He reclines his head against it and grasps the edge of the bench in which he's been numbing himself for hours upon hours.

Prison is Hell, he tells himself. It's a different hell from the fire and brimstone one that old folks tell children about to get them to behave. But Hell nevertheless.

In this one, you can't move. The walls form a small cocoon that separates you from reality. It creates a unique reality for you. One where there is nothing but the knowledge that outside, the world is walking past you, laughing at you because you're an insignificant runt that is worth less than an ant. You don't exist anymore. Everybody forgets about you. Your wife falls in bed with your best friend. Your dog gets ran over by the milkman's truck. Your daughter will go to her prom and will end up getting pregnant with the child of a superficial, rich rat that will never take care of her. She'll live beneath a bridge, ashamed of her tainted history, and die of hunger with a baby clinging to her breast.

All of these thoughts will drive even the most collected men insane in mere moments while they stare at the empty walls inside a cell. The air is rough to breathe. A whisper roars throughout the halls mightier than a lion. Your mind betrays you. And when you are alone, exiled from everything that you hold dear, all you have to keep you company is yourself.

That is why Alfred Donahue is so impatient. All his life he has slept underneath blood-stained sheets. He's led a rich life. A life that has its gratifying benefits when you are more than willing to look away. Ignorance is bliss. And Alfred loves bliss. Or at least he did until today.

A bona fide "hero" of the common people, Donahue has served his years as city councilman of Los Angeles. Working in tandem with the Mayor, police force, federal government, and a lucrative, yet infamous law office known as Wolfram & Hart, where he is, to his surprise, currently being held.

In Los Angeles the influence of Wolfram & Hart extends from the government, to the talent industry, to "random" violence. This law office oversees every relevant deal that takes place inside the city's inviting walls. And for Councilman Donahue, tonight, Wolfram & Hart have expressed definite interest in his dealings.

He was picked up by two men in black suits at a very exclusive gentlemen's club were young, beautiful women desperately seeking money for their college tuition, or perhaps a crack in the walls of the proverbial unbreakable fortress that is the Hollywood talent industry, degrade themselves in otherwise expressions of affection with one another for the pleasures of the voyeuristic male, although sometimes female, audience. At first he did not realize that he was being carried to a van parked outside the entrance. All he was able to do at the moment was to stare at their seemingly odd blood-colored ties. An effect due from a long night of sinful desire and inhumane amounts of liquor.

He was beaten unconscious once inside the van, and driven to the premises of Wolfram & Hart. Now, as he waits for his jailer to come claim him, he clings to the bench, trying desperately to maintain sanity. A slow, hammering hum slithers into his ears perversely. He continually tries to block it out, but the surreal humming feels despairingly magical. He walks up to the bars and grabs them with slight force. He pushes his gaze as far as he can towards the end of the hallway, and sees a large black vault door. He shuts his eyes and feels the dreadful noise coming from its direction.

"Could you stop that, for the love of God?" he asks painfully.

The humming drags itself into a screeching unintelligible whisper. Alfred looks up towards the lights across the hall as they begin to palpitate. The air feels cooler and the whisper becomes all the more encompassing. He lets go of the bars and as he steps back a cold grip suddenly takes hold of his shoulder, and with a frightful gasp of pure horror, Alfred's very soul attempts to escape its fleshy prison. He falls against the bars and unto the floor. The whisper dissipates into a slow, rasping laughter that chills his bones.

The doors at the entrance of the hall open and as such the rest of the nightmarish laughter disappears. Marcus Hamilton enters the hallway and walks towards Alfred's cell with a gleeful smile on his face and a set of keys between his fingers.

"What's the matter, Councilman?" he responds after seeing Donahue lying on the floor. "Pavaine busting your chops?"

Alfred stumbles back to his feet and faces Hamilton, still shaken by the events that took place before he arrived. "Who... who are you?" he finally says.

"I'm Marcus Hamilton, personal assistant to the CEO of Wolfram & Hart, Councilman," responds Marcus with an easy smile on his lips. "I'm afraid that he's very affronted by your actions against our humble company and he's been looking forward for a chance to finally having a meeting with you."

The Councilman looks at him dead in the eye. Dread fills his soul, and every fear and unwelcome thought that crossed his mind before comes back full-force. He feels compelled to bellow his desperation unto Hamilton, but instead he just musters the strength to send a quiet prayer for his life. "Very well," he finally says while swallowing down his dry throat. "Let's get this over with."

Marcus opens the cell door and allows the Councilman out. As they head towards the exit door Marcus opens the door for Donahue and as he steps outside the door, he turns towards the hallway. "Good night, Mathias. Stop playing with the lights or I'll put a lot more volts than I care to count into your sockets the next time."

Hamilton closes the door behind him as he exits. A disturbed laughter emits from the farthest end of the hallway. Inside the cell is a man to whom death is no concern. A man gritting his teeth shut as little whispers of laughter escape his blood-stained lips. Maggots dripping from his bloodied, empty eye sockets, eating his skin away like parasites. Something that he finds deliriously ironic and delightful. Hell couldn't have him when he died. Yet he now lives eternally, always thirsting for the freedom of death, inside a cell. A parasite. Alone with his thoughts. His memories. Clamoring for relief.

Prison really is Hell.

Alfred walks towards the office of the CEO, escorted closely by Hamilton. Every given number of steps he wipes his hands against his pants. He touches his teeth with his tongue, masochistically searching for empty spaces where his molars used to be.

Inside, he notices a dark figure standing before a wall of light. It's morning and the sun is shining brighter than usual, or perhaps it could very well be his eyes attempting to adjust to the clarity of the sun after being in perpetual shadow for so many hours. He tries to focus his eye sight and slowly begins to discern the features in his face as he turns his way.

Wesley looks at the Councilman with a small glint of pity in his eyes. He walks towards him and smiles. "Good morning, Councilman," he says as he extends his hand towards Donahue. "I trust the accommodations were to your liking?"

"Slept like a log," replies the Councilman, denying Wesley the courtesy.

Wesley smirks cockily, "Right. Well, let's get down to business, shall we? Care to sit down?"

"I'd rather die on my own two feet, Pryce," responds Donahue as he watches Wesley walk around his desk towards his chair. "I just want to be done with this."

"Well, that's a damn shame, let me tell you," says Wesley sitting on his chair. "I brought you up here to plead your case. To try to appeal to my good nature. And here you are, spitting on me while I extend you a polite courtesy."

"I didn't think you guys had any good nature," he says chuckling coldly. "Glad to see I'm wrong."

Wesley takes a deep breath, and smiles at the Councilman. "Why'd you do it?" he asks curiously.

Donahue looks down, then glances back at Wesley. He sighs and responds, "I wanted out. I got tired of looking away. Too many nightmares. I couldn't bear to look at myself in the mirror anymore."

Wesley presses on. "But why now?"

"Good opportunity. Seemed like the right time."

"Did you really think you were going to get away with this?"

"I hoped, at best. But I figured you were gonna catch me eventually, so I didn't bother to run."

"So you sent your family packing to Norway on a vacation and went to a strip club. Got drunk and waited for us to pick you up," he says smirking while scratching his beard. "Interesting."

"How do you know where my family is?"

"Our people checked their flight tickets after an unfortunate incident forced the staff at the airport to bring all the passengers right back out," he notices Alfred's face grow pale from the dread. "Poor pilot died of a heart attack a couple of minutes before lift off. Never saw it coming. Probably had kids, a wife, couple mortgages, the works."

"What did you do to my family?" says Alfred. Fear and dread dripping from his lips as the words flow out of his mouth.

Wesley smirks and leans against his chair. "You really don't want to know," he finally responds.

Alfred feels his entire body grow numb. He feels tears flowing trough his cheeks, yet he can't muster the strength to lift his arms and wipe the off. Wesley nods towards Hamilton and he steps beside Donahue. He pulls out a .9 mm silver-plated silenced gun and points it steadily to Alfred's temple.

Alfred takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. A quiet flash of light devours the room in less than a second and as quickly it disappears. Blood splatters across the carpet floor and Alfred's body tumbles down a lifeless husk. Hamilton pulls the gun back into his jacket and grabs the body by its legs. He drags it throughout the carpet outside for disposal.

Wesley remains seated, quietly staring at the pool of blood staining the carpet floor. He rubs his eyes with both hands then leans forward to his desk. He picks up the phone and dials.

"Mrs. Donahue?" he says, "Yes, I'm from Wolfram & Hart. I'm very sorry for your loss. I know this is a difficult time for you and your children, but I'm calling you to inform you that your husband left you a considerable amount of money to you and your children... No they were set up in different accounts as trust funds, but under the circumstances they are available for you to collect them... Yes, inheritance... Yes, he was a very good man... No, no, you're absolutely right... It was completely unprecedented... Yes, from what I understand the police always take some time before showing the body for identification... Yes, indeed... Yes... No, of course, take all the time that you need... It's not a problem, I assure you... Yes... Yes, well, we'll talk later during the week... No problem, Mrs. Donahue... Yes... Goodbye."

He hangs up the telephone, and turns his chair towards the window. The powerful rays of light blind him. He feels his heart beating harder than before he cares to remember. Another day has begun at Wolfram & Hart.

Another prayer flies up into the sky.


	6. Chapter V: Lessons in warfare

Chapter V: Lessons in warfare.

It's been an hour since the sun went down. They have been anxiously dreading this moment since the first rays of sunlight broke through their windows. They have been preparing for this moment with great care. It's their moment of truth. Their moment to shine brighter than a thousand stars.

There are only four of them now. Four matching each other in strength and wit. Four hunters to feed upon. Young, beautiful and strong. He walks at a steady pace behind them. Their eyes fixed upon the obvious directions for an uninspired ambush, always a pace behind him.

He smells the cold, salted air, discerning their particular scents from one another. A strange sensation of pleasure runs through his veins, forcing a gleeful smile onto his lips. The excitement of the hunt. A prosaic sentiment that only those who live for death can truly find inspiring. Playing with their minds, giving them hope that they will conquer his strength with theirs. The typical arrogance of a Slayer. A particularly dissatisfying sentiment that is commonly found in every girl that possesses that Power.

They walk steadily along the predetermined path across the forest. As they step down a hill, a gush of wind blows across their. Their hair flows against the mighty current, like ripples in a great calm lake. They stop in their tracks and turn to look behind. The youngest of the four, a very gifted fourteen year-old Japanese girl, who had been following them shyly in the rear tumbles down into the whirlwind of leaves in the ground as if all life had just been poured out of her.

The wind blows again. They are shrouded under a veil of pure fear, and, to him, there's nary a more beautiful sight than this. Instilling fear gives him strength that he'd otherwise could not posses by mass. It gives him power that could only match that of warring angels. But, if anything, it gives him the satisfaction of knowing that they would fight as if their very lives depended on it.

He follows their moves with caution, waiting for the right moment to ambush them. A brawl against three very gifted, not to mention proficiently armed, Slayers from the Academy. His kind of odds.

He glides from branch to branch as silently as a whisper, and as deadly as an enraged viper. Yet as he prowls his prey closer, he recedes into a calm, not wanting to give them the pleasure of knowledge as to his whereabouts. He knows he can take them all in battle. He knows this without question. Yet the intrigue of surprise feels far more compelling.

The women huddle together, pressing onto each others backs. They feel their bodies warm in anticipation. It's exciting, yet frightful. Something that they quite relish upon. A gush of wind sweeps the plethora of leaves that surround them, and as they look for their prey expectantly, an alarming sound of crisp tree leaves simultaneously crushed behind them takes them by surprise. Without a prior warning, the Slayers jump into battle against a vicious, ravenous monster. The battle is waged with reflexes so fast, that lighting itself can't rival them.

The first to fall is a tall, Latin girl with glistening golden locks. As she turns to face her adversary, his fist collides with her face, leaving her to stumble backwards blindly. He turns his body and rams his foot against her stomach. The remaining two Slayers run towards him swinging their weapons in a blind rage. He smiles, relishing in the moment, and flips backwards, narrowly escaping the fury of their blades. He turns around as soon as his feet touch the ground and leads them towards a large, brooding tree. Then, as if his body were weightless, he runs his feet over the surface of the tree and flies backwards with swift grace.

Landing square on his feet, he lunges at the distracted attackers and dodges their incoming blows as he makes way towards them. The pale light of the moon glimmering and across his long, flowing dark coat. He dances in a flurry of fists around the determined women, forcing his weakened adversaries to yield one at a time.

The battle is fought quickly. The victor, declared before it even begun.

As the hour passes, the girls slowly begin their recuperation from the battle. Although some are heavily bruised, none of them suffer considerably damage.

Spike watches over them as they gather back to their feet, reclined against an old oak tree. He's holding his coat under his left arm. Puffs of smoke escape from his lips, curling brightly against the pale moonlight. A smile crosses his face as he sees the Slayers gathering before him. He turns his head and spits, then slightly pushes himself from the tree with his right leg. He walks up to the girls and lets the cigarette bun drop to ground and calmly steps on it. He takes a deep breath and exhales loudly, a clear gesture of disappointment.

He looks into their eyes and says, "Fun night, wasn't it?" The Slayers smile contemptuously at him, as if expecting mockery from the casually witty vampire. Spike notices and walks in between them towards an axe lying on the batch of leaves. He grabs the axe with his left hand and walks back towards the girls swinging it casually.

"What the bloody hell happened here, girls?" he asks them with a note of disappointment in his voice. The girls look at each other with bewilderment. "You're all Slayers," he continues. "Yet you jumped at me as if you were pissed off nine year olds scratching my leg 'cause I shaved off your Barbie's head. Really pathetic."

The tallest one shyly raises her hand. Spike looks at her and nods in compliance. "We did not expect you to be hiding up in the trees, sir."

"That's for damn sure, junior," Spike responds. "You were all too cocky. Four high and mighty Slayers against the handsomest devil in this neck of the woods. Not to mention he's a vampire at that. You could've won today, girls. Your heart was in the right place, but your mind was left behind drooling over that cute Orlando Bloom poster you have on your wall with all the little heart cut-outs about, Christie. Not something you want to happen when you're fighting a blood-thirsty demon like me."

Spike hands Christie the axe. "Next time, don't drop it," he says turning tail and walking away from them. Twenty paces or so later he stops and notices that the girls were dragging themselves in utter shame behind him. He takes a deep breath and, in a single sweep, he puts his coat back on. Spike looks up at the moon, then back at the girls.

"I'd say we have about three hours before Mr. Sunshine comes knocking to roast me a new one," he says, looking around slightly impatiently. Then, looking at their eyes with a cocky smirk on his lips, he says, "Wanna play some tag?"


	7. Chapter VI: Intangible hope

Chapter VI: Intangible hope.

It's been hours since the sun went down across the British skyline. The moon is glistening beautifully across a cloudless sky, shining down upon the populace with warmth and beauty. People go about their night, same as every night of the week. They follow their respective routines, whole some break theirs.

Miles north, nearing the hills and forests that adorn the country-side, a large, dark building looms across the night as mighty as a fortress. Inside legends tread the halls freely. Studying texts as ancient as time itself. Fighting with a ferocity that make Gods cower. Drinking tea. Feeding their minds. Discussing how adorable Ashton's cheek-bones are. Training armies that will shape the Earth.

A home for warriors that wage war against chaos.

Inside this fortress dwell a particular group of individuals that have faced the might of chaos and survived. They have been broken, but their bruises have always mended. They have seen the ugliness of war and, although they have suffered tremendously, they have chosen to fight this battle. Some do it for meaning. Some do it to feel their existence justified. Some do it for redemption. And some do it because they have nothing else to lose.

Destiny chose them for this. And this is how they will die.

Charles Gunn has been staring at the open file for more than ten minutes. He doesn't focus on the words, albeit, try as he might, that is his intent. He stares at the pages blankly, the words blurring through his pupils. He takes a deep breath, and pulls himself from the file, leaning against his chair. He crosses his arms behind his neck, resting his head against them, then pushes his seat towards the large window to his right. He takes a look around his office and then focuses on the view.

Any other night, the sky would be so dark that nary a slight view of the courtyard can be singled out and appreciated. Tonight, however, the moonlight shines brightly across the field. Charles pushes himself of his chair and walks towards the window. He looks outside and notices a slight shadow moving slowly, and somewhat rhythmically, beside a darkened tree trunk. He smiles and shakes his head. The mental suggestion is very practical and somewhat appropriate for his situation. After all, they have all been living in an Academy in which the population is primarily teenage females, followed by dusty book-worm middle-aged men. He looks past the picturesque silhouette and maliciously hopes, perhaps out of residual juvenile humor, that a patrol guarding the premises stumbles across the girls.

As he looks further into the night, across the courtyard, he sees the windows of the infirmary. He takes a deep breath as he pushes his gaze and notices the flickering of candlelight coming across the white curtains. Charles fears that room. He dreads the thought of walking through its doorway. He trembles at the thought of making way through the central circular hallway that travels all the way through the Council in direction to the room. He fears it. He loathes it. Yet every week he goes there at least once. That is his weekly routine. He has been doing it for months now. Ever since they found them, with her.

A puncturing knock on his door throws his focus. He looks towards the large, oak double doors and scratches his head. "Come in," he finally says. The door to his right opens slightly and the head of Rupert Giles moves in.

"Busy?" Rupert asks as he shyly steps in. Gunn smiles at him and puts his hands inside his pockets casually.

"Not at all, man. What's up?" he asks exuberantly.

Giles walks inside the office and closes the door behind him. He grasps the mug in his hands, rubbing them against it, and makes his way towards Charles. "I, uh, I was wondering if you had a chance to look over the file I sent you," Rupert finally responds.

Gunn exhales. The kind of exhalation that exudes disappointment in oneself. "I, uh," he starts then pauses. "I... really haven't."

Giles looks at him with severity in his brow. Gunn pulls his hands out of his pockets and rubs them together. He turns nervously towards his chair and walks to it, tediously pacing himself. Giles looks beside him and grabs the back of the chair to his right as he sits in it. "Are you alright?" he asks Charles as he stares at the open file on the desk.

Gunn clicks his tongue, clearly indicating his discomfort towards the question lingering in the corners of his ear. "I don't think I can do this, Rupert," he finally answers.

Giles sighs accordingly. He leans forward against the desk and puts the mug quietly on it. He leans firmly back against the chair and smiles sympathetically to Gunn. "I know these past... months have been very hard," Rupert says, "but we to do this. We need you here, Charles. You have a gift that is incredibly resourceful for the Council, and we... I need you to help us."

"But..." he begins, "it's Wesley, Giles. This just feels wrong."

"And it is," Rupert interrupts. "What's happened in the last months is nothing but wrong on every conceivable level, but nevertheless, it happened. You have to remember that he turned his back on us. We trusted him, and he betrayed us. As much as I care for the boy, he's made his decision very clearly."

Gunn shakes his dubiously. "But, sleeping with the enemy? That's not his M.O."

Giles leans forward. "Nevertheless, he did."

Gunn drops back on his seat. "He played us... but I know him, and he wouldn't have done it unless there's a damn good reason."

"Hope is the best weapon we have at this juncture," Giles responds as he takes off his glasses. "Regardless, I need you to take a look at the file."

Gunn picks it up, obliging to Rupert's request. "What's it about this time?"

Giles pushes himself to his feet. He grabs the mug from the desk as he walks around the chair towards the door. "He had a city Councilman executed in his office. Poor man had children and everything."

"Says here Donahue was one of the Mayor's closest advisors?" asks Gunn pointedly. "Was he trying to get out of the whole outfit, or what?"

"Our informant couldn't confirm that claim, but it's pretty safe to assume that whatever he did really took its toll on the firm. They had him beaten and secured in the basement lock-out for days before he was killed."

"Eesh," responds Gunn with disgust, "bet Pavaine had a fun time with him." He stares at the file for a few more seconds, his eyes scanning the page in the same rhythmic pattern. "Wait. What happened to his family?" he asks as he turns page after page in search of an answer to his query.

"They received a very generous amount of money from the firm for their troubles," finally answers him Giles.

Gunn's eyes widen with surprise. He lets out a rustling whistle across the room, then says dumbfounded, "This is an estimation, right? Are these the actual numbers?"

Giles pulls his mouth off the mug and swallows down the hard liquor. He puts his right hand inside his pocket, then responds with a slight smile, "Hope, Charles. Someone has to keep it, and frankly, I'm too old for it so you're going to have to do."

Charles looks down at the file with a gleeful smile on his face, when a forceful knock on the door startles him and forces his gaze towards its originating point. The door swings open and Spike looms his head from out in the hall. His face is bruised and exuding exhaustion. Rupert turns around, startled as well, and looks him with worry. "Spike? What happened?" he says, his voice slightly trembling with nervousness.

Spike walks into the office. His coat, ripped to shreds in several points of his back, is soaked. He bites his lip in an amalgam of guilt and enthusiasm. "Uh, Rupert..." he begins, "remember how you told me not to be too... what was the word... aggressive with the girls in the field after the, uh, last time?"

Gunn stands up expectantly. His face brimming with questions that he has the unfortunate chance of fully knowing the answers to but, as usual, need to be validated by being uttered. He's stopped by Giles who raises his trembling hand against him. "What did you do, Spike?" he asks calmly.

Spike exhales purportedly. "Well," he responds, "it's like this. I took a group of girls to the forest to test them out like I always do. Thing is, I think they over-did it."

Giles shakes his head dubiously, then says, "They?"

"Yeah..." Spike responds, looking slightly impatient. "One of them brought a sledge-hammer."

Gunn covers his eyes from the shock with both of his hands, then says, "Please tell me you didn't sludge her right back with it?"

"Hey, it's survival of the fittest. I felt my life was in danger," says Spike defensively.

Giles takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes forcefully. "It's insupportable, Spike," he says incredulously.

"And why the bloody Hell is that insupportable?"

"How about... you're already dead!" shouts Gunn.

"Hey," says Spike pointing towards Gunn decisively, "you see a crazy Texan chick gunning at you with a sledge-hammer, dead or not, you're bound to get jumpy."

"You get chased around by demons wielding three feet-long axes on both arms on a nightly-basis!" says Gunn.

"Yeah, well... Valley Girls frighten me," says Spike with a note of fearful affirmation in his voice. "Anyways, she broke a couple of ribs, but I'm sure she'll be fine."

"Fine?" asks Giles calmly.

"Well... they're Slayers, right?"

Rupert and Charles look at each other, both completely dumbfounded by what just transpired. Giles turns towards Spike and puts on his glasses. "Where is she now?"

Spike sniffs and scratches his nose. "Infirmary... along with the others," he responds callously. "Now can I go down to the Teacher's lounge? 'Cause I think there's a bottle of my good buddy Jack down there with my name written all over it."

Giles stares at him blankly, then waves him to go. "I better get down there. Check on them," he finally lets the words escape his mouth, when he quickly says to Spike as he leaves, "I'll see you later."

"Yeah," says Spike as he walks out of the office, "I'll come by your office later."

Giles licks his lower lip, still incredulous over the incident, then says, almost as if to himself, "I meant at the bar. Something tells me a single cup of vodka isn't going to get me through the rest of this evening." He looks at Gunn to excuse himself out of his office, and Charles nods in compliance.

As Rupert closes the door behind him, Charles summarizes the entire conversation by exhaling a soft scoff that easily sounds as a slight appeasing chuckle. He sits back down on his chair and notices a few pages of the report file lying on the floor. He stares at them for a few seconds then, shaking his head, pushes himself right back on his feet.

He closes the file and walks around the office towards the door. He opens it and turns around to take one last look at his office for the day when he notices the window at the far end of the courtyard. No candlelight flickering through the still curtains. He takes a deep breath and steps out, flickering the light switch as he does so. Charles shuts the door and a loud clicking noise fills the empty, dark office as he locks it. Another day gone by.

Who knows how many more to go.


	8. Chapter VII: Reason

Chapter VII: Reason.

The room is dark. The air that fills its walls feels thick and warm against the skin. A door opens in the far end of the stage, creaking loudly against the silent backdrop. She steps into the hall calmly, walking with certainty in her pace, looking dead into the darkness with neither worry nor doubt in her eyes. She listens to the way the particles of oxygen travel as she walks, seemingly searching across the den for a particular sound that suggests the location of her quandary.

She peers through the shadows as if she were bathed in daylight. Her eyes moving accordingly, hunting for the advance of her prey. As she walks towards the center of the stage, she turns her head towards the vast emptiness that shrouds the audiences seats. Then, as if her position were an indication, an engulfing light showers the stage, and Illyria stands defiantly against it. Her blue streaks fall over her face, graciously covering her furious eyes. Her hands, bulging into trembling fists capable of shattering mountains and shredding steel as if it were mere cotton candy fall to her sides craving for an enemy to engage in battle.

A rattling hiss spews from over-head, and as she turns her gaze upward, four bodies tumble from the ceiling. Their bodies draped entirely in black cloths, their arms bound across their waists. Four female figures slowly rising to their feet. Their bodies radiating a vibrant rage, statically shaking as they surround the King. Illyria lowers her brow, an indication of command and power against enemies too trivial for one such as her.

She cocks her head to the side and looks at them as they hiss in unison. "You do not belong," says one as they continue to stumble in a circular pattern against the Old One. "You must leave," hisses another. Illyria turns her gaze momentarily back to her left as she continues to peruse through the circling abominations before her. "You're days are gone, master," snarls another.

Then Illyria unlocks her eyes from the creatures and focuses on the light that shines before her. "I am Illyria," she muses commandingly, "Shaper of Things. I do not take petty quibble from peasants."

The four abominations suddenly stop in their path and stare at her in silence for mere moments when, with amazing precision, they unleash a powerful and ghoulish wailing as they tear their arms away from their bounds. Vigorous organ music suddenly roars through the stage, filling the entire hall. Illyria grabs the ghoul to her right and as she raises her a loud voice attempts to shout over the intrusive music.

"No!" screams Lorne disappointedly. "No, no, no, no, NO!" The music stops as the house lights go up and the women in the stage suddenly freeze in their positions. He steps on to the stage and Illyria turns her gaze towards him, still holding the girl up with her right arm. "Um, Mrs. Illyria," asks the girl shyly, "could you please put me down now?"

Illyria puts her down calmly and the girl straightens her costume as her feet touch the boards of the theater stage. The girl sitting in the back of the stage at the organ turns towards Lorne with an inquisitive, yet somewhat distraught, look on her face. "What's wrong?" she asks nervously.

"What's wrong? What's wrong?" asks Lorne impatiently. "I'll tell you what's wrong, sweety. It's hiss, menacing hiss, snarl, wail, punch _then_ comes the ominous and more-intrusive-than-I-like organ music!"

"I- I'm sorry, sir. It's just that I can't see the stage from where I'm seated," she says to her defense.

Lorne takes a deep breath and looks towards Illyria. "You see what I'm dealing with here?" he asks her. "Why is it that Slayers can flip cars upside down with their pinkies but they can't follow a simple instruction, huh?"

Illyria cocks her head inquisitively. Lorne sighs in disappointment and shakes his head. "Alright, people," he says towards the small crowd of Slayers sitting in the audience. "Class dismissed. We'll pick up from where we left off next Wednesday."

The girls start picking up their books and other belongings and head out for the exit of the theater hall, when Gunn walks in. He walks towards the stage and smiles casually at Lorne. "How's our production of 'King Lear' coming along?" he asks him jokingly.

"Ha, ha," snarls back an annoyed Lorne, "that's very cute, you know? How am I even supposed to--" Lorne interrupts himself as he sees the girl at the organ walk past him hastily. "Hey, hey, hey," he says jogging after her, "Sorry for pulling a Whitney for you up there, kid. You did great. Okay?"

She tucks her hair behind her ears and smiles shyly. "Okay, sir. I'll see you Wednesday afternoon," she responds softly.

Lorne smiles. "Atta' girl," he says proudly. "That's what I like to hear. And don't worry, after we're done with this, not even Tim Burton himself'll come up with something creepier than our little piece. Trust me... I oughta know." She smiles with encouragement and hurries after her classmates. Lorne walks back to Illyria and Gunn and notices the condescending smirk on his lips. "What?" he asks Charles suspiciously.

"No, no," answers Charles smiling, "I'm just wondering if you really believe that."

"What? The Burton thing?" asks Lorne. Charles raises his eyebrows inquisitively. "Timmy gave me an idea for a Broadway show he wanted to do once at a party," Lorne continues, "but I coaxed him back to reality by sending him to a rehab facility. That man can't hold his sugar without getting goofy... more than usual. I mean, have you even seen that 'Charlie' trailer? I'm out of the business for a year and the man is suddenly back riding the sugar horse. Thank God, he's not evil. How would that be for a double whammy?" He laughs to himself.

Gunn looks at him puzzled. "He's not a demon?" he finally asks.

"No," says Lorne, with a sigh and slight note of disappointment in his voice, "just a guy with delusions of being one." Lorne turns his gaze towards Illyria, who has been hearing the conversation with slight intrigue. "You okay there, Leery? You look kinda blue in face."

Illyrian looks at him slightly puzzled by his question. She smirks proudly as she responds, "I do not require any assistance, Krevlornswath, if that is what you imply."

"Yeah, well," Lorne responds in kind, "thanks for the assist, honey."

"You're appreciation is irrelevant for me, demon," she says with a proud smile on her lips. "It amuses me beyond gratification when you belittle the children for their poor delivery."

"Heh, that's... heh, heh... that's not..." chuckles Lorne nervously, biting his lips as Gunn raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Really?" asks Charles with a curious smile curling his face. "Is that right?"

"In my days," Illyria says, almost with delight, "we used to impale the insubordinate upside down for questioning authority, but I find your ways particularly pleasing to my eyes as well."

Lorne looks at her nervously, then back at Gunn. "That's _not_ it," he says defensively.

"So I take it Theater Class has become an outlet of your rage? Or is it that you just feel superior?" asks Gunn, forcibly trying to contain his amusement.

"Hey," shouts Lorne, "why don't you go give Spike a lecture for throwing books at the students at poetry class?"

"Alright, alright," Gunn says chuckling softly, "You're doing a great job, man. I'm just bustin' your chops a little bit."

"If you no longer require my assistance I shall retire to my quarters," interrupts Illyria impatiently.

"Oh, sure," responds Lorne gleefully. "Thanks again, sweety. Same thing next week." Illyria walks off the stage and exits through the very same door she came in before. All the way through the back of the stage.

Lorne and Gunn stand alone on the stage, awkwardly silent. Lorne walks off towards his seat in the audience and picks up his papers.

"She seems to be doing okay, isn't she?" says Gunn almost as if to himself, as he stares hypnotically at the door in which Illyria left.

"W-what?" says Lorne, slightly startled.

"Illyria. She seems to be dealing with the situation pretty well."

"Well, she's got us to keep her busy and amused. And, of course, there's ye olde Breeze o' the Sea to keep her happily sedated as well," he says with a slight snicker.

"You're pumping her liquor?" asks Gunn, somewhat shocked.

Lorne chuckles. "You should see her when she gets drunk. She just goes totally catatonic. Let me tell you, you could hit her over the head with a sledge-hammer and she wouldn't even notice."

"That's because she doesn't," retorts Gunn. "I remember Wes telling he broke an axe over her head once and she didn't even flinch."

"Yeah, well, I was talking figuratively, Mr. I-have-to-take-everything-so-literally-I-thought-spark-plugs-were-fireworks."

"Hey, that was one time," Gunn shouts in his defense. "One time! Man, a guy gets a brain-boost and everybody suddenly thinks it's pretty damn funny when his street-smarts suddenly go poof faster than Spike's cigarettes."

"Yeah, and you didn't find all that funny too when he started calling you Sparky after that," says Lorne laughing.

Gunn rolls his eyes and shakes his head while chuckling to himself. He takes another look at the door and walks down the stairs towards Lorne, as he peruses through some papers. He stands beside him as Lorne puts his things in his briefcase. He grabs it and turns towards Gunn, who's lost deep in his thoughts.

"Have hope, Gunn," he tells him calmly with a smile. Charles looks at him startled, completely at a loss for words. The words echo in his mind, as he tries to formulate a coherent thought. Lorne smiles. "You're conflicted," he continues with a nurturing timber in his voice. "I know. I am too. But I stick my head in ten thousand things at the same time to get my mind off this whole ordeal, while you stick yours in it. And that's good, 'cause we really need somebody dealing with this directly, and quite frankly, everybody else is scared out of their minds to be in your position. But you need to take it in stride. Look at you, you're exhausted."

"I know, I know," says Gunn somewhat ashamed, "but, it's just that I can't believe this is happening. And I can't help but think that I could've done something about all of this if I had gone to L.A. with him last year. Maybe this wouldn't have happened. Lindsey, Spike... Fred. Every time I look at her I... I just want to kill him. Because I... just don't understand how he could've done this to her, to all of us. And I hate him for it."

"He used to be your best friend once, Gunn. After everything that's happened in these last couple of years, he's still your friend. I don't believe for a second that what he did to Fred was intentional. I really believe he wanted her back. But it blew up in his face big time, and now she's..." Lorne pauses then scoffs softly. "Whatever he's doing, I believe there's a reason. I knew there was something brewing in his head when we last spoke. I just wish I had realized what it was right then. But, hey, I'm not dwelling on it, and neither should you. You didn't go to L.A. because you felt you were needed here. There was nothing there for you, Charles. You know that. And you need to stop blaming it on yourself, and focus on what we're going to do next. Because you paid a high price for the gift you have in your brain, kiddo, and you need to put it to use here. Where it's needed. Capisce?"

Gunn puts both his hands inside his pockets. He knows Lorne's words are true, but they don't appease his mind. "You're right," he finally says, though more to himself than to his companion.

"Of course I am, pumpkin'," says Lorne exuberantly. "Who do you think you're talking to?" He slaps Gunn on his arm. "What do you say we go to the Teacher's Lounge and drown our petty sorrows in sinful amounts of liquor?"

Gunn smiles gleefully. "I'd love to, but I first have to stop by the infirmary. Haven't checked on Emily yet."

"Emily?" Lorne asks with deep curiosity.

"Roberts," answers Gunn, scratching the back of his head.

"Oh," wails Lorne.

"What? What is it?"

"She was supposed to be here for the rehearsal, and I, uh, said a few remarks about her as a person that I'm starting to deeply regret."

"What do you mean?" says Gunn, trying to contain his intrigue.

"Mostly curses. Curses, and a fair amount of epithets," says Lorne disenchanted and ashamed with his own behavior. "What happened to her?"

"Spike cracked her ribs when he hit her with a sledge-hammer," affirms Gunn.

Lorne stares at him without blinking for a few seconds and Gunn starts laughing softly. "Now I know why all the girls looked at me all weird when I started cursing the star of the play for her lack of responsibility." He pauses to collect his thoughts. "I need a drink," he says almost saddened by the suggestion.

"It's gonna be fine, Lorne. You're the King, Queen and all the puny horse-riding people of entertainment. I don't think this'll crush you're world."

"Tell that to girl with the crushed rib-cage," bemuses Lorne. "I'm so gonna smack Spike over the head with a hammer. Let's see how much he's gonna like it."

"I think you'll probably end up causing him permanent brain damage."

"Yeah, sure, like he has that much going on up there anyways."

Gunn laughs as they walk out of the theater hall. Somehow, the thoughts that once clouded his mind are gone. Perhaps, being surrounded by friends constantly has taken to that effect. They walk up the hallway towards the door, and step out into the light of day.

Somehow, this has been a very good day, he thinks to himself. Just exactly what he needed.


	9. Chapter VIII: Night out

Chapter VIII: Night out.

He's nervous. Nervous and edgy. He can tell it, and he loathes himself for it. This whole thing has become more like a routine than anything else, yet every single time he walks into the alley, he falls ever more closer to having a stroke. He rubs his hands together expectantly, sporadically releasing warm puffs of air into them as he peers through the darkness that cloths the rat-infested alleyway.

He pulls his cream-colored raincoat over his shoulders and looks into his wrist-watch. Three past ten. He's late, which considering his personality, is almost to be expected. But he's been standing there for twenty minutes, and there is only so much that he can handle. The air feels thick from humidity, yet oddly cold. His pant-legs are soaked near the shoes and his coat feels increasingly heavy.

He puts his hands inside his coat's pockets and rears his head towards both sides, anxiously expecting his quarry to arrive. He leans back against the wet wooden door behind him and shuts his eyes with a relenting sigh. "Figures," he whispers to himself in frustration.

"What?" a soft, yet rasping voice replies beside him. Xander jumps back to his feet startled. A red-faced demon with long, black hair looks at him inquisitively. He's wearing dark-colored trench-coat and he's holding a leather-bound bag in his right hand.

"Jesus, man!" scoffs a bewildered Xander. "Don't do that!"

"Do what?" the demon retorts. He stares at Xander incredulously, then looks at his own self, puzzled if his appearance is the cause of his distraught.

"Puff out of thin air like you're freaking Houdini," replies a somewhat bothered Xander. "Is it too much to ask to make some casual noises prior to showing up in my face from out of nowhere?"

"Like what?"

"I dunno!" shoots back Xander, while scratching the back of his head nervously. "Kick an empty can, or jingle some keys."

"I don't have keys, man. I'm freakin' Nightcrawler, but--"

"But with better hair and no religious dilemmas, I know," he mockingly interrupts the demon.

"Yeah, well, I'm here now," responds the demon with a hint of shame in the timber of his voice. "Do you want the papers, or what?"

"What do you think!" Xander answers back annoyed.

"Hey! Not cool, man! I'm missing a _Friends _marathon for this, dude! Ross and Rachel were about to get back together, and you guys don't pay me enough for TiVo so I have to settle for the basic stuff."

"I- I'm sorry, man. I've... I was out-of-line."

"Alright, man. Apology accepted." He puts his hand inside his bag and pulls out a file. "Here you go, man."

Xander takes it and flips it open, perusing through the loose paper sheets. The demon closes back his bag and looks at Xander expectantly. "Need anything else?" he asks him impatiently.

Xander raises his gaze from the pages lost in thoughts. "What?" he quickly responds. The demon looks at him with both his eyebrows raised. "Oh!" Xander realizes. He searches inside his coat's pockets and pulls out a closed letter envelope and hands it over the gleeful demon. "Sorry, man," he apologizes.

"Nah! Don't sweat it," he replies appreciatively as he tucks the envelope back inside one of his coat's pockets. "Later, dude."

He turns around and walks away. Xander closes the file and looks at him inquisitively. "Hey, Chris..." he shouts to him.

The demon turns around fast and gestures with his arms as to why he called him back. "How's Emma?" Xander continues. "Haven't seen her at the Café in over a month."

"Yeah, she told me she stopped going there."

"Really? Well, then, tell her I said hi when you get back, alright?"

"If wishes were horses, man."

"What? What do you mean?"

Chris looks over his shoulder behind and walks towards Xander again. He scratches his chin and releases an exasperated sigh. "It's just that... well her boss has her working late almost every night, man. I mean, you should see how messed up she looks when she gets home. Hair and make-up's a mess, and she's always exhausted. Plus, the hours she puts on weekends? She's never home anymore, dude."

"Have you tried talking to her?"

"I did. I have. I even once stayed up all night till she got home. Lit candles all over the apartment and that freaking George Michael song she loves so much."

"_I want your sex_?" asks Xander bewildered.

"Don't I wish," scoffs Chris reluctantly. "No. Not that one. Anyways, that's not the point. I figured it'd be easier to coax her into talking to me in a more romantic setting. So, you know what she told me?"

"What?"

"_Not tonight, honey. I promise I'll have sex with you tomorrow_. Then off to bed."

"You think she's cheating on you with her boss?"

"Nah, that can't be it."

"Why are you so sure?"

"Cause her boss is this totally hot up-and-coming chick named Lynn."

Xander's eyes grow with surprise. He chokes up for a second and gestures Chris to wait until he can collect himself. "Anyways,I gotta thank you again for introducing us, man. 'Cause, frankly, I don't have the faintest clue about what I'd do without her."

Xander coughs. "No problem..."

"Look, catch-up's been great, but I gotta run. Those crazy blokes at Central Perk ain't gonna wait for me. Be seeing you. I'll tell Emma you said 'hi' when she gets home."

Chris starts walking away from Xander again. "Thanks, man. Good luck!" he shouts after him as he fades into a silhouette in the darkness and vanishes out of sight, then whispers to himself, shaking his head, "You're really gonna need it."

Xander makes his way out of the alley. As he steps into the cold London streets, he takes out his cell-phone out of his coat and dials. He heads towards a parked dark silver-colored Jeep Cherokee and unlocks it when a voice at the end of the phone line greets him with a callous 'Hello'.

"Giles!" he answers with a quiet exuberance. "Yeah, I got it... No, it went fine... Yeah, late as usual, but he... What?... Yeah, I think so. Why?... Huh!... Well, ain't that great... No, it's okay. It's okay... Yeah, I'll pick him up... Yeah... Uh-huh... No prob... Yes, Giles... I know... I'll try to restrain myself... Yeah, well, he's already dead, so I don't know how big a difference will I make if I try to kill him... Okay!... Okay, okay. I'm going. I'm going... Bye."

He steps into the car and slams the phone and file against the passenger seat. He takes a deep breath and puts the keys in the ignition and drives off into the night.

Half an hour later, Xander arrives at an empty parking lot beside a bar named _St. Lucy's Twisted House of Horrors_. Several police cars are parked around a smoking SUV. Xander drives to the side of the bar and stations his car. He walks out and heads directly to the group of police officers standing near the damaged vehicle. He stands beside the police farthest from the car as he takes notes.

"What do we have here, officer?" he asks the startled cop.

"Excuse me?" the officer replies unmoved by his sudden appearance.

"What's going on?" he asks again with a smile in his face.

"Sir, this is a restricted area."

"I know that. It's just that I happen to know the owner--"

"Are you a relative of the owner?" interrupts the officer.

Xander raises an eyebrow, taken aback by the question. "Uh, no. And considering he's been dead for well over a hundred and fifty years I'd say you're way off your mark, buddy."

The officer glances at him with a cold stare. He turns towards Xander and puts down his pad. "I'm Council, officer," he affirms the cop.

The cop looks behind him towards the others standing beside the Escalade, then back at Xander. "Follow me," he says as he walks towards one of the parked police cars. Xander walks a few paces behind, never glancing anywhere but the direction in which he's headed. The officer rears his head inside the car and pulls out a small, silver-colored flash-light. He nods to Xander, and he pulls up his right sleeve, exposing his fore-arm.

The officer walks towards him, and grasping his arm he flashes under his wrist, just below the palm. A translucent silhouette in the form of a dragon takes shape in his skin underneath the light. The officer lets go of his arm and tosses the flash-light back inside the car. "Back there, sir," he informs pointedly towards the far end of the lot.

Xander nods to him with a slight gesture of gratification, then walks past him. He heads towards an alley behind the pub. As he walks in he sees Spike sitting in a large garbage disposal unit. His coat is sitting beside him as he drunkenly contemplates an open wound in his forehead over a cigarette and a beer.

"Rough night?" asks Xander as he steps in front of Spike.

Spike scoffs. "Really think that's a bloody given," he retorts.

"Yeah, well, it happens," responds Xander in an oddly sympathetic way.

Spike looks at him dubiously. "What the Hell happened to you?" he asks bewildered as he jumps off his seat.

"What do you mean?" asks Xander puzzled.

Spike puts the cigarette on his lips and takes a long drag. He drops it and steps on it as he releases the puff of smoke to his side. "What are you doing here?" he asks Xander suspiciously.

"Giles said you were having some car trouble and asked if I could pick you up. Why?"

Spike sniffs the cold air as he analyzes Xander's posture, delved completely in intrigue as to his intentions. "Okay," he finally says. "Okay then. Let's go."

He turns around and grabs his coat and heads off back into the parking lot. "So... when exactly are you planning on telling me why you melted half of Giles' car?" asks Xander amusingly.

Spike turns around and shakes his head in full amazement and realization. "I knew there was a reason you were being so nice."

"I'm always nice," refutes Xander.

"Yeah, well, if you're that curious why don't you ask His Majesty over there," he strikes back, pointing to a large, green, muscle-bound demon lying on the floor farther into the alley. "I'm sure he'll be more than happy to oblige."

"That's a Curlahk, right?"

"Yepper."

"Well, that certainly explains a lot."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, now I know for sure that the increasingly displeasing aroma is not just you. So that puts my nostrils at ease."

"Hey!"

"What did you do? Got drunk and punched the first walking-mountain you saw?"

"In a word: yes. Problem is I had no idea he was that drunk too. I just figured he was just being himself when he threw a glass full of piss at me during my recital. I mean, Curlahks are usually testy, downright bastards but, this guy? Had to throw him out the window after his follow-up."

"Right. And that was?"

"Damn stupid gorilla calls me a reject, has-been, Billy Idol wannabe."

"That bastard! Now that's just unheard of. A travesty even. Whatever gave him that idea?"

"Yuh-huh," scoffs Spike. "Bet he didn't find it half as funny when his face hit the asphalt."

Xander looks at him barely blinking. "Yeah," he begins, "that's all just fine and great, but it still doesn't explain the car."

"Oh. That. Yeah, I hit him with a pipe in his gut and he threw up on the hood," he pauses, reminiscing the incident. "Oughta' sue his ass."

Xander takes a deep breath and shakes his head in shameful denial of amusement. He takes another quick look at the Curlahk demon lying unconscious on the pile of garbage on the floor, then heads out of the alley behind Spike.

"You okay, pal?" asks Xander as he catches up to him.

"Been worse, mate," mumbles Spike in return. "Far worse. 'Member Glory?"

"Yeah... That was fun, wasn't it?"

Spike snickers drunkenly. "Yeah, it was. Just don't tell Buffy, all right?" Spike pauses. He stumbles around the parking lot then looks at Xander. "Hey, uh, I know you hate my guts and all, but could you do a bloke a favor and tell me if the world's really spinning or is just me?"

"Yeah, dude, it's spinning around, all right. You just forgot to take your gravity boots before you came down here."

"Somebody oughta' do somethin' about it."

"Don't worry. As soon as we get back home I'll tell Gunn to file a complaint. Oh, and, just so you know,those cops over there are actually hot, naked chicks."

"Really?"

"No."

"Huh. Shame."

Xander helps Spike into his car and buckles his seat-belt. He walks around the Jeep and nods to an on-looking police officer, pointing him at the alley in the back. He opens the door and sits in.

"You're gonna tell Giles, aren't you?" asks Spike, somewhat ashamed, as Xander turns the keys in the ignition.

"Nah! It'll be funnier when he gets the full-tab for all the costs."

Spike scratches the back of his head. "That's just cruel," he bemuses to himself. "I like it."

"Figured you would, buddy."

"My head hurts."

"Don't worry, Spike. You'll sleep it off."


	10. Chapter IX: Progressive action

Chapter IX: Progressive action.

A brand new day has dawned upon the L.A. skyline. Worker bees swarm the streets vigorously, painfully driving their vehicles towards the means to their hollow ends. A black-colored limousine marches the streets along with the lines of the millions of denizens, yet its purpose and direction differs, and in many ways mocks, the rest. Inside lies the means towards their ends. A modern king. A ruler of a shameless and sinful empire tainted by the blood-stained claws of lust, desire and power.

The cars inch towards their goal. Each fighting an endless army that refuses to give passage to every single other vehicle that dares cross its path. It's a test of virtue. Of irrefutable patience. A war of the mind. Brought to a battlefield of stone and smoke. Met by over-caffeinated soccer moms, students craving rest and irritable middle-aged men with dead-end jobs, all striving to be first at the non-existent finish-line. Perhaps out of a powerful desire for control over circumstance. Or maybe it's just desperation.

Nobody really knows. They just go through the motions every single day without hesitation. Only that nagging feeling of self-loathe and the knowledge that it'll be worse in the afternoon.

Wesley sighs as he looks out of the window. He knows that they're close to their finish line, yet by remaining inside the limousine it feels all the more farther away.

"Told you we should have teleported there," callously points out Hamilton as he files away his nails.

"Has anybody ever told you how appallingly annoying it is to hear someone point out the obvious?" asks Wesley.

"Of course. Though, truth be told, none of them actually lived much longer afterwards."

"If I say that I don't find that surprising, would that satisfy your ego?"

Hamilton chuckles. "You flatter me, sir."

As the minutes crawl through the face of time at an unspeakably slow pace, they arrive at their destination. An entire city block is closed with police lines and an ever-growing mass of intrigued citizens floods the pavement. They look at each other with a glint of impatience in their glance as the vehicle comes to a halt, then proceed to face the metaphorical music as the driver of the limousine comes around to pry it open for them.

The sun shines brightly as Wesley steps off the vehicle. He takes a few moments by the door as his eyes adjust to the decreasingly painful light. He turns towards the driver and smiles with a slight nod of gratification and proceeds towards the rampant crowd of reporters as flashes of white light bathe his face.

They push through the gathered crowds as police officers pass out masks to the people. They step into the lobby of the building and walk past the reception desk towards the elevators in the back. They wait for a few moments staring helplessly at the raving audience outside, then step into the elevator with exasperation as it arrives. Hamilton leans over the panel and presses the button for the roof.

"Are you completely sure this is something you want to do, sir?" asks Hamilton, whilst staring at the elevator door, fixing his suit.

"I'm positive, Marcus. This is exactly what we need to be doing," responds Wesley. "Why? Do you have any doubts?"

"No, sir. Just making sure you're ready for the heat you're about to take for doing this."

Wesley chuckles softly. "It's very doubtful we'll get any unfavorable criticism from this. It's just a P.R. spectacle, Hamilton. Nothing more, nothing less."

"And a damn good one, too."

"I know," Wesley says with an arrogant smirk. "That's what makes this so much easier. Besides, the only people I care about pleasing are already happily in line behind this project. There's really nothing to lose any sleep over."

Hamilton smiles. "Very inspiring, sir. Confidence has always been your greatest virtue."

Wesley raises his eyebrow with dubious surprise and looks at Hamilton with the corner of his eyes. "I thought my shameless penchant for betrayal was my greatest virtue."

"No. Probably second best, though."

"Second?"

"Indeed."

"Why second?"

Hamilton ponders on the question as the elevator doors open on the roof of the building. "Because I always thought it was more like a sixth sense to you, instead of a virtue. That's probably why."

A large white tent is set up with a podium in front of a crowd of reporters. At a distance, far down the streets, an eerily familial structure peers over the crowds and glances deeply at Wesley. The ghastly structure brings all sorts of unwanted imagery to his mind, yet this only strengthens his resolve. He stops before Hamilton and looks at him demandingly, turning back to the unresolved discussion.

"So... what? You just assume I have a birth-given gift for betraying and hurting those closest to me?"

"Well, you have to admit you have a pretty damn good record on this. Take Lindsey, for example. Or, how about your father? First time you see him in years and you shoot him in the knee."

"Wasn't the first time..."

"That was a robot."

"Not to me."

"Really, sir?" responds Hamilton doubtfully.

"Okay, fine. They're all Kodak moments, I'm sure," Wesley says as he proceeds towards the tent.

"Indeed. Especially that last one. One of your finest moments, I'd surmise."

"I don't doubt it," he responds sarcastically.

"As you very well should, sir."

Wesley stops and sighs exasperatingly. "Why thank you, Marcus," he responds sardonically. "I'm eternally grateful to have you to reiterate continuously what I already know."

"My pleasure, sir," replies Hamilton, blushing with pride. "You're very welcome."

Wesley shakes his head and chuckles beneath his breath, then they continue towards the tent. Wesley smiles and waves at the reporters as he passes them by. He's uncomfortable, yet by his looks, nobody would ever know. As they walk inside the tent, he's immediately greeted by a well-dressed, middle-aged man with a warm shake of hands and a bright smile.

"Wesley!" he says with enthusiasm. "So glad you could come, my boy."

"How could I miss this, Ron?" replies Wesley with a serene smile. "After all, I am paying for it."

"Well, I'm very glad to see you." He glances over Wesley's shoulder towards Hamilton. "Marcus! How are you?"

"Mr. Mayor," responds Hamilton callously, with a simple nod.

There's an uncomfortable silence as they glance around the area impatiently. "Well, uh, certainly been refreshing," finally responds the Mayor with a nervous chuckle. "You know, catching up and all."

Wesley looks at him with palpable dislike and an arrogant smile. Ronald feels his forehead sweat and quickly searches inside his coat for a handkerchief to wipe it off. He takes a few quick puffs of breath and looks back at Wesley smiling uncomfortably.

"So, how's about we get this show on the road, eh?" he says forcing himself not to stammer. He looks at Wesley, whose quiet smile has curled into a gleeful smirk. "Sir?" he asks nervously.

"Lighten up, Ronnie," Wesley says smiling, slapping the Mayor's arm. "Everything will be fine. Just be sure to address the audience exactly like we told you and you should be perfectly alright."

Ronald exhales a breath of relief. He looks at Wesley and chuckles nervously. "So, uh, shall we--?"

Wesley nods. "Proceed as plan, Mr. Mayor," he finally responds.

Ronald takes an exasperatingly deep breath and walks past Wesley and Hamilton. He rubs his eyes and licks his lips, then pushes himself towards the podium set up outside. The crowd of reporters and on-lookers slowly quiet down as he looks into their faces with a trustful smile and a warm wave.

He softly taps the microphone and inches closer to it. "Good afternoon, citizens," he begins. "As you're all very well aware of, today is a day were we make, once again, history for our beloved city. Today... one building falls and from its rubble we will build a fortress. A fortress that will undoubtedly save countless of lives. From the ashes of this Hyperion Hotel, a new hope for the many homeless and troubled youths that wander our streets in search of direction will flourish. A hope that will change lives forever. A hope that will give them the direction they long for. A home where they can express themselves freely and work and learn. A home where they will evolve and become good, honest-living citizens of this city and this, our beloved country.

"On this very spot," he says as he points behind him towards the dark Hotel, "the new Los Angeles Youth Center of Hope will be erected. As a beacon of light to shine over all of those children that have been shown the darkness of mankind all too often. Thanks to the efforts of my administration and the unending devotion and dedication of the kind people at Wolfram & Hart, this dream of progress and this desire to help those that most need us, has become a reality, and the pride of this, your humble servant."

As the words take flight from his lips, several men in white jump-suits scatter across the street. The spectators, reporters and police officers down in the streets below put on their protection masks. At a distance, further down the avenue, other city workers walk out through the gates of the Hyperion signaling the others.

"So," continues the Mayor, "it is my honor, and my privilege, to bring this new vision of ours into a reality we can all appreciate by tearing down the building before us, in order to bring forth our hopes for the men and women that will shape our future. Ladies and Gentlemen... welcome to a brand new dawn!"

A loud thud is heard rumble through the streets. The structure flashes with a power and rage rivaling that of a fusion bomb. And as the ground beneath their feet trembles with a mighty fury, the building once known as the Hyperion Hotel, a once abode of heroes, falls to its knees and shatters in a majestic beauty that escapes the use of words.

Wesley looks at the crumbling structure. His eyes remain unfazed by the beauty of destruction far from his grasp that keeps the audience present reeling. He looks at what had once been his home. A place where he left his dreams. A place where only memories dwelled. A place that once evoked a sense of hope. A sense of justice. A place where he learned what truly was life, and what love meant. A place that no longer stands. A place where everything eventually died. And as such, it has come to pass. A darkly-colored cloud rises from its ashes.

He shrugs at the sight. The implosion of the hotel had been quite a visual spectacle. He leans his head over to Hamilton and whispers to him. "We're done here," he says commandingly.

"Are you sure, sir?" asks Hamilton.

"Do you really think otherwise?" responds Wesley callously, as makes his way towards the elevator.

"Not really, sir," answers Marcus. "Would you like to grab a bite before heading back to the office?

"That'd be nice. Yes."

"Very well, then," responds Hamilton with a smile. "What will it be today? Italian, Polynesian, Chinese or Taco Bell?"

"Italian," he answers decisively, as he presses the elevator button. "I'm not letting you drag me into another Taco Bell again. It's bad enough we got sued for you letting everybody know they were using corpses in their processed meat."

"I sincerely apologize to best of my ability, sir. I don't think I should be held responsible for having a sensitive palate."

The elevator doors open and they step inside. "I know," responds Wesley callously. The doors close before them and Hamilton presses the button for the lobby. "Why don't you call Vera? See if she'd like to join us."

"That'd be splendid. Thank you, sir." Hamilton reached out for his cell-phone and dials. After a few seconds' pause, a voice at the other end greets him. "Honey!... Yes, I was just calling you to see if you wanted to join Mr. Pryce and I over for lunch... Yes... No, no Taco Bell... Probably The Olive Garden... Oh, that's alright... No problem, honey... Okay... Will do... Love you too." He hangs up and sighs as he slithers his cell back inside his suit. "Looks like it's just the two of us then."

Wesley snickers. "Huzzah."


	11. Chapter X: The forest in the desert

_**Author's Note:**_

_Howdy all! Sorry for the lateness between chapters but I've been extremely busy lately and I just haven't been able to write as often as I did before._

_Anyways, just wanted to take a moment to let you all know that I will be responding to any and all questions you may have in the reviews section of the story. That way it won't interfere with the overall flow of the story (which would be a lot faster if I could get my bearings, but, alas, I digress). Let it all out there and I promise I'll do my best to answer as soon as possible (which I have already done for some)._

_Thanks again for the wonderful reviews, folks. You have no idea how much your words affect me and the way I write the story. Thank youfor sticking with this little story and giving it a chance. I apologize in advance for anything that may seem off in this chapter, since I haven't written a single word on this or any story for about 4 months... maybe more. So, with that in mind, enjoy this next lil' offering (hopefully). I'll try to have new chapters soon. Very soon._

_I hope... ;-)_

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Chapter X: The forest in the desert.

The wind blows across the desert's sky. The night is young. The air cool. A black car seemingly flies above the sandy silhouettes and dunes, pushing forward across the Earth towards an unknown destiny. Through its right window a hand slowly twists and turns, dancing with the currents, feeling the flow of the force they carry. It's 10:15 pm Los Angeles time, and it's been seven minutes since they left the office.

Calmly listening to the plethora of voices that cry in whispers, Wesley retracts his arm, covering his mouth with it just as he releases a weary yawn. Hamilton looks towards the rear-view mirror, then back at the endless mountains of dust before him.

"Tired, sir?" he asks.

Wesley shrugs. He turns his attention towards Hamilton who doesn't shake his sight from what lies ahead. "You can say that, yes," he finally responds.

"Don't worry, sir. We'll be there soon."

Wesley scoffs then looks out the window again. "You said that twenty minutes ago."

"No, I didn't. It's only been five minutes."

"Wesley pauses for a moment in an attempt to register the information. "Huh. Right," he scoffs. "Felt longer."

Hamilton sighs. "You know, sir, we are playing with every conceivable law of Physics. Interdimensional travel takes time to master. It's not like we're tearing a gap in reality, or waltzing through time, this is serious magicks we're dealing with."

They remain silent for a few interminable seconds.

Wesley scratches his chin. "So, by your implication, you're saying that I don't understand how complex this is?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. I'm just saying a midget in a fuchsia-colored tutu can tear a gap in reality. It's easy. I mean, if Angel's kid did it..." he says chuckling. "All I'm saying is," he continues more collected, "that you don't appreciate the complexity of the situation. You understand the magicks, but you don't appreciate the time they take."

"Why would I want to appreciate the time it takes you to get us to where I want to go?"

"Because this is a wholly new experience for me."

"You're not going to get all Born-Again Christian on me, are you?"

"What? Is there something wrong with that?"

"No," he says after a pause. "I just don't feel like taking that kind of excitement right now."

"Suit yourself. I'm rather enjoying the intrigue."

"I don't doubt it," Wesley responds coldly.

A few moments of uncomfortable silence pass.

"How much longer till we get there?" asks Wesley.

"I already told you," scoffs Hamilton.

Wesley snickers. "You are such an easy target."

"Said the man with the most collective screw-ups in recorded history."

"I think Julius Caesar, Napoleon and Hitler had plenty more than I do."

"All how you look at the glass. Sir."

Wesley shakes his head in dismay, then turns his gaze towards the darkness outside. Marcus drives onward with a gleeful smirk. After a long while Wesley starts feeling his attention dissipate and his head numbing increasingly, when a couple of shadows underneath the moonlight begin rising ahead in their direction. Hamilton pushes the accelerator and the car blasts towards the gloomy figures in its path.

The car rushes into a dark forest that seems to have grown in the desert. The trees themselves are a wonder to behold. Their trunks rival the strength, grace and beauty of the Statue of Liberty, yet for all the awe it inspires it instills a quivering sensation of fear. They stand tall, like vigilant giants that stomp their feet at the unwelcome ants that crawl their way through their midst. Their branches extend in every direction like claws reaching for ones very soul. Their leaves dance with one another in a hypnotic waltz as they slowly rain down upon the lone dark road crossing their forest.

Yet perhaps the most impressive feature of this surreal and frightful place is the bushels of blooming black roses that grow to the sides of the road. The petals glow underneath the moonlight, gleaming in a majestic splendor of dark silvery light. Wesley stares at them in wonder when he feels the Circle symbol embedded upon the top of his left-hand burn as if provoked by the presence of the roses. He looks at it as he closes his hand into a fist. He looks up to Hamilton beside him and sighs.

"Are we there yet?" he finally lets out.

Hamilton looks at Wesley and a quiet laugh escapes the confines of his jaw. He points towards the large black tower ahead that seems to resemble an unbreakable thorn spiraling out of the Earth in an endless dance towards the Heavens, far beyond the reach of the trees that surround it. He drives around the immense structure and parks beside the lone entrance lighted by two silver torches with glimmering black fire. Hamilton looks towards the entrance through Wesley's window.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Like there's no tomorrow," Wesley responds.

"Excellent," Marcus says as he opens his door.

They both step out of their car and steadily make their way towards the silver torches. Wesley stops before them and turns towards Hamilton with uncertainty in his eyes. Marcus turns around and notices that the black car they were driving has vanished. He looks back at Wesley, who, in turn, shakes his head and walks inside.

"Never seem to get used to that," he says as he steps into the foyer of the dark tower.

"Kind of cool, if you ask me," responds Hamilton.

"Have you ever wondered why I hardly do?" Wesley retorts after a brief pause.

"Not at all, sir. I find that my insights are often too complex to be understood even by great minds such as yours. But, no worries, I have since learned to cope with that knowledge."

"I'm very happy for you."

"Why, thank you, sir," Marcus answers with a smug grin. "That really means a lot to me."

Wesley shakes his head with a smile curled firmly on his lips as they press onward towards a pedestal that stands in the middle, lit by torches set circling it all around the walls. The tower itself, however, is a hollow and empty shell. Wesley and Hamilton walk towards the small pillar and Wesley places his left hand firmly on its top. A loud, clanking noise rumbles across the tower and before them a staircase lit by torches appears, leading into the ground. They walk towards them and proceed inside. Wesley looks at his watch and is slightly shocked when he notices it reads 10:19.

As they make their way in forceful silence across the downward spiral torches light themselves ahead in order to show them the way. Minutes seemingly fly as they continue down the never-ending staircase, yet the watch remains the same as when they begun their descent. After a long and tiresome walk they hear a soft huffing noise coming in their direction. They stop in their tracks and after a while a built black man in running shorts passes them by with a smile and a wave.

"Howdy," he says as he continues his race up the stairs.

Wesley looks at Hamilton. "Morning jogs," responds Marcus callously.

Wesley releases an exuberant sigh and continues downward. After a long while they reach the bottom and a large black door circled across its shape by a ring of black fire. As he stares at it in wonder, Hamilton walks past him and opens the door. A wall of bright, pure light hits Wesley across the face like a mile-high tsunami.

Hamilton smiles and signals him onward. "Shall we?" he asks with a smile. Then, without any possible hint of hesitation, Wesley walks inside. Hamilton follows and the door slams shut.


	12. Chapter XI: The woeful odyssey

Chapter XI: The woeful odyssey of the great warrior.

The water hits his face like a bag of bricks. He's tense. More so than usual. He looks back at the reflection in the small mirror in front of him as he wipes the trickling droplets of water from his face with his tweed coat, and feels his heart racing to escape its confines in his chest.

He takes a deep breath and turns towards the door of the small restroom, rearranging his suit. Forcefully, drawing every small morsel of strength that may be coursing through his body, he lunges his arm towards the knob and twists it open.

The creak of the doorway swinging forces him to retreat into the safety of the restroom, and the secure comfort provided by the lone toilet seat. He looks back outside and steps into the enclosed hall, looking to his right cautiously.

"Excuse me?" says a booming, cold voice from behind him.

"Gah!" he yells. Andrew turns around to see a rather large man standing anxiously by the door.

"Mind if I use the facilities or do you need it for another two hours?" says the booming voice through clenched teeth.

"Oh, um..." stammers Andrew, stepping away from the door. "Why, you certainly may, good sir," he finally says as he collects himself.

The large man pushes through Andrew and lets himself into the bathroom, slamming the door gracefully in his wake. Andrew looks over his shoulders yet again, as if looking for confidence, and walks back to his seat near the rear of the plane.

As he lets himself drown in his seat, he buckles his safety belt and releases an exuberant sigh. Looking over the head of the lady seating next to him, he glances through window to his right, searching through the darkness outside for any indication of trouble that may loom on the horizon. He takes a deep breath as a feeling of certain relief washes over him, then opens the overhead compartment and withdraws a slim leather-bound folder and starts sorting papers within in his lap.

A young and perky stewardess passes beside him and leans close to him. As he peruses through the papers his nose twitches with the faint smell of sickly sweet vanilla coming from her bare neck. Feeling queasy, yet slightly intoxicated by the beautiful smell, he turns towards her. Her crimson hair seemed to be glistening in the knot it was being held imprisoned in with two Chinese sticks. Her soft, cream-colored skin made his veins bulge as he desperately tried to restrain himself from lunging at her. A smile crosses her face as both their eyes meet. "Feeling better, sir?" she says.

Andrew says nothing. Unable to keep his eyes from widening, his cheeks from reddening uncontrollably and his trembling hands to lose their grip on the papers he was, up to that moment, looking through, he just stares, unblinking at her. A hint of a soft snicker escapes the stewardess as she bends to help him pick up his belongings.

Andrew drops to the floor in front of the stewardess and starts to gather his papers hurriedly. The stewardess arches her shoulders back and reads the document in her hand with a mixture of interest and disbelief.

"Further legislation for the rights earth-bound demons' employment in public offices," she says as she flips through the pages. "Alcohol prohibition laws for demons under the age of fifty? What's this?"

Andrew stares at her in shock for several seconds, until, in a moment of sudden realization, he slams his hand against the papers she was holding and puts them back in the folder. He looks up at her twinkling gray eyes and exhales a dry chuckle. "That's, um," he says, stammering uncontrollably, "th- that's confidential. I- it's t- top secret."

"Well," she says, pushing herself back to the her feet, "it's not so much a secret now that I know, isn't it?" She winks and a sweet smile crosses her lips. "Hope you don't have to kill me now, 007."

Andrew lets out another terrified chuckle. He stumbles back to his seat and looks up at her, desperately seeking aid from the Heavens to help him control himself.

"So?" asks the cute stewardess. "What was that all about?"

"Oh, it's, uh, it's really nothing. Just dribbles. Nonsense." A shy smile curls in his face. His heart racing at a thousand miles per second. The smell of her perfume seeping through his nostrils, making his hairs stand on end.

"Really? Then why so keen on not letting me see them? I mean, if they really were nothing, then why rip them off my hands?"

Another chuckle. Sweat begins to pour down his forehead.

"Well, okay. They're not really nothing, per se. It's, um, it's really... how do I put it? It's highly... classified... stuff. Area 51 type of... stuff."

"Really?" Her expression turns, to his surprise, to interest. She moves towards the seat before him and leans against it. "What kind of stuff? Is it really about demons?"

Andrew looks nervously to his surroundings. Everybody is asleep, yet his cautious observation for anybody eavesdropping filters towards the stewardess. "Oh, there's no one up. Everybody's asleep."

The remark was by all accounts true. The very few people that were taking space inside the first-class section of the plane were fast asleep. Andrew looks up to her standing right there in front of him and for a splitting second he wonders whether he was also dreaming, yet the thought dissipates immediately after the lady sitting next to him gives out a rather unpleasantly loud snore and hits him with her elbow as she readjusts herself in her seat.

The stewardess smiles at him. "There are a couple of seats empty over here," she says as she points towards the front. "I'm due my break anyways, so... want to-?"

Andrew opens his eyes wide and without saying a single thing, or even acknowledging her suggestion with a simple nod, he lunges to his feet carelessly. They walk quietly towards the front seats and they sit down.

The stewardess exhales a breath of relief and arches her back a little as her shoulders and neck crack softly. To his surprise, Andrew stares hypnotically at her. She looks at him and grins. "Sorry about that," she says. "Long night. I'm Millie, by the way."

Andrew stiffens out of his trance and chuckles nervously yet again. "A- Andrew..."

A soft laugh escapes her. "So, Mr. Andrew," she finally says, "I believe you were about to tell me about some demons." A long, sparkling smile curls across her face.

For the next hour Andrew drones about the world into which he, according to his tale, was born into. Thrust from the very bowels of his mother's womb into a frail and fragile little world overrun by forces beyond most mortal men's dreams and nightmares. An enforcer of undeniable good that battles a never-ending battle against the forces of evil that threaten to swallow the Earth into an ever-lasting darkness.

He tells her of his years of traveling the planet, in search of the means to battle the swine that poisons our lives. He tells her of his years in the mountains of Tibet, learning concentration through years of hard labor with monks. How he honed his skills through endless trials and tribulations. How he mastered the darkest of arts, in an attempt to understand his enemies, and slay them with his mighty sword, empowered by the very force that drove them.

To his amazement her attention, nor belief, wanders as he continues. And so, he tells her of Sunnydale. That after years upon years of mastering every means available to battle evil, he helps a promising young Slayer named Buffy and her band of good-natured misfit friends defeat the great and fearsome First Evil and saving the entire world from its army of doom. He tells her, in explicit detail how he fought it in hand to hand combat and dealt it its death blow.

Then, with a very cautious tone in his voice, he tells her of the disasters that happened a year and a half before. When every major city in the world was swallowed in a wave of chaos, blazing fires devouring the lives that dwelled within. Of how, with the sacrifice of the noble and gallant Angel, they defeated the force behind them and how they set to rebuild, and to expand their influence now, in this post-Apocalyptic world.

"Post-Apocalyptic?" Millie asks with palpable disbelief.

"Why, indeed, my fair lady. You see, after we defeated their armies, the world was in chaos."

"No, it wasn't. Well... kind of, but not really. Right?"

Andrew gives out a soft yet hearty laugh. He feels much more comfortable now, but somehow he feels the unnerving sensation of wanting to take a look at his watch.

"Oy, I didn't realize it was that late," he says smiling.

"What time is it?" Millie asks surprised.

He bends his arm towards her and a gasp suddenly escapes her.

"Oh, God, I have to get back to work."

"Hmm, well, that's a shame."

"That was quite a story, Andy."

"Yes it was. I'm pleased to say I've lived a full life."

"I'd say you'd do at that."

A short moment of silence falls between them, and in that fleeting second he feels distant.

"Well," she finally says, "off to work."

"Yeah," he says disappointedly.

They both stand to their feet and walk back to his seat. Millie waves goodbye and walks away. As Andrew stares at her he sees her glowing in the radiance of her beauty until she walks out of his line of sight. He turns and finds the lady in the seat next to his drooling over his seat. Disgusted and affronted by this, he walks, shaking his head in disbelief, over to the restrooms.

As he swings the door open, he feels a hand grab him sharply by his shoulder. Then, before he reacts instinctively, a sweet aroma flows into his nostrils calming his muscles. Millie turns him around and pushes him into the bathroom. She lunges herself onto him and drowns him in a powerful kiss.

Andrew looses control over his body. He cannot believe this is happening. A goddess came forth from the Heavens and gave herself to him, choosing this mortal and engaging him as if he were her god.

Millie quickly looses the knot and tosses her hair to her sides as Andrew looses himself down her neck and into her blouse. This is it. Over two decades of wait. But it was finally going to happen. This is the moment.

Then a sudden grunt pulls him back to the room. Away from the cloudy skies ecstasy in which he was flying. He feels his arms go cold, then subsequently numb. An unwelcome taste suddenly fills his mouth. He feels his legs quiver and then give way. Then nothing.

He falls over the toilet seat and a droplet of blood falls from his lips. Two black Chinese sticks stick out horribly from his upper-stomach, blood staining his lily-white shirt like a nightmare.

Millie stands over him and searches the inner pockets of his coat. She smiles as she finds a small black orb concealed in the right pocket. Then, pulling her hair into a ponytail with a rubber band she had been wearing on her wrist, she steps out of the restroom. As the door closes behind her, a small sign on it says 'Vacant'. She walks briskly up the passenger seats and starts waking up the people who were asleep. The plane was landing. Her mission completed. And somewhere, someone was about to have a very good day.


	13. Chapter XII: The tragic conclusion

Chapter XII: The tragic conclusion of the one-night stand.

Sandra Langdon hates her job.

Over the last two years and three months she has been working with the network, she has been stuck in the field reporter position. Her work on the field is top-notch. She has been awarded several times for some of her most fine-tuned investigations and has a reputation of keeping a superbly objective eye on the field. She has written numerous articles that have all garnered very positive responses from everyone from academics to self-important people who like to pretend their academics.

Still, though, she hates her job. Because when it all comes down to it, she's not anchorwoman for the six o'clock news, and that's where the real money and glory lies. To her, reputation is nothing when you have nothing to show for. And when you have been working for faceless network suits for two years and three months relentlessly and you're sent to do a field-report on a murder inside an airliner in cold and clammy weather, instead of being pampered inside a studio by make-up artists and personal assistants all the while earning a six-figure salary for reading lines for an hour and pretending to like the pervert sitting next to you for the cameras, you have every right to hate your job. Yet, by her expression in front of the camera nobody would ever notice all of that. Her blue, glistening eyes exude comprehension, and the soft, well-rehearsed tremble of her gentle and warm voice fills your ears with compassion.

In earnest, Sandra Langdon should not be awarded for being a reporter. Sandra Langdon should be awarded for being an exceptional artist in deception. An actress.

"--airport officials have not been able to confirm the rumors that a member of the plane's staff was responsible for this brutal and heinous crime. Now for those of you that are joining us at this very moment, a young woman was just found murdered inside a--"

The television turns off. Spike scratches the back of his head with the remote and throws it to an armchair that sits beside him.

"You're one lucky lil' bastard, you know that?" he says turning towards the bed behind him.

Andrew is sitting upright drinking a juice box, clutching it with both arms. He's wearing a hospital gown and serum tubes are coming out of both his arms.

"I'd reckon I am, good sir," he says as he slurps the last, noisy remnants of the juice box. He looks awkwardly to Spike and sets it gently in the table next to his bed. "Um, can I have another?"

"No."

Andrew turns his gaze away from Spike towards the doorway. Rupert Giles is standing there anxiously, and to his apparent regret, for far longer than he had cared. "You won't get another one until you tell us what happened," he says sharply.

"Hey, listen, amigos," says Andrew through a nervous chuckle, "I went through a ghastly ordeal. Seriously, kids, unless you let me recover that strength that has waned from me unwillingly, I can't help you out. So... juice box... please?"

Spike takes a deep breath then says through gritted teeth, "Andrew..."

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you," he says droning. "I woke up that day in my hotel room at five in the a.m. by a call from the hotel staff. Apparently I had given them a call the night before while I was watching Gilligan's on TV Land. They were showing the episode where they find out that the whole island is sinking and they try to rebuild their houses on the highest point of the island, but then Gilligan knocks it down and it really wasn't that the island was sinki--"

A collective "Andrew!" cuts him short.

"Well," he says, slightly annoyed that they interrupted him, "as I was saying, the hotel people called me, and it was weird because I didn't really remembered giving them that call. But later I figured that it would have been over the commercials since I usually black-out during those and end up doing all this stuff that I don't usually remember afterwards, but anyway," he quickly continued after noticing their cold stares, "I got up and after I ordered a Brazilian omelet for breakfast I went and took a shower because I could still feel the Briddlamn demon blood in me."

"What, the slimy stuff they have in their skin?" Spike interrupts with concerned interest.

Andrew nods. "Yeah..."

"Oh," says Spike in utter surprise. "That ain't blood, mate. That's actually--"

"That's actually nothing that concerns me in any particular way," Rupert interrupts with a strange hint of anger mingling with disgust in his voice.

"Right," says Spike sharply. "Get to the point, kid. What happened on the plane?"

Andrew shrugs with apprehension. "Can I get another juice-box? How 'bout mixed berries? I haven't tried that one ye--"

"No!"

"Hmph," he grunts angrily. "I feel like I'm being interrogated while you stand around there mocking me with your cold-hearted stares and quips. Like Leia must have felt in Episode 4: lost and totally devoid of hope."

He pauses then says matter-of-factly, "Utterly inappropriate behavior for Watchers."

"Trust me," says Spike crossing his arms as if restraining himself, "I've got half a mind to start using needles if you don't quit yappin' about stuff that I don't care about! What happened on the plane, Andrew?"

"I'm sorry!" Andrew yells, still whining.

He takes a deep breath of reassurance and says, "It was a very trying and difficult experience for me. I believe that with a little more time I will be able to fend these haunting demons off and come forth with my tale. In the meantime, I would very much appreciate a Mixed Berries Blast. Please."

Giles and Spike exchange looks of desperation. Clearly Andrew was considerably unwilling to share the details of how he lost the artifact he was traveling with from Cairo. Spike takes a step towards him and moves in front of his bed, arms still crossed.

"Giles," he says pointedly, "fetch the Veritaserum."

Giles raises an eyebrow dubiously.

"If the little git can't bring himself to talk, then I think a little motivation is in order. Wouldn't you think?"

Andrew scoffs. "Come on, Spike. I'm insulted. Veritaserum isn't real." He chuckles amused. "If you're going to threaten me try being more ambiguous than Harry Potter, okay?"

He scoffs again in a self-important tone. "Honestly..."

Giles shakes his head. "Spike?" he calls rubbing his eyes fiercely.

Turning to Rupert, "Yeah?"

"Torture him if you have to, but make him talk."

Spike smiles. "Will do."

Giles walks out of the room in the infirmary and an uncomfortable silence falls upon the two of them. Andrew looks awkwardly to his left, where a small refrigerator is sitting beside the bed. He tries to reach for it to no avail, until Spike swings its door open and hands him another juice-box.

"Thanks," says Andrew appreciatively.

Spike sits on the armchair next to the bed and lets out an exuberant sigh. "Prego," he says callously.

"Seriously, dude. Veritaserum?"

"I know, I know. I've been reading her _Order of the Phoenix _and I came across it."

Andrew ponders on this for a few seconds, then says, "Oh, you mean when Umbridge-?"

"Yeah."

They remain silent for a few seconds.

"Good book," finally says Andrew.

"Oh, hell of a book. She really likes that series. Been reading them for years, but never got around to reading that one, so I'm doing it for her. Helps her with the, uh... y'know..."

There's a short yet thick silence before Andrew dares to speak. "Does she, um..." he mutters nervously, trying to avoid Spike's gaze. "Does she..." He pauses, then snickers uncomfortably. "Never mind."

"What?" Spike leans forward.

"No, I, uh... I just wondered if she... you know... remembers the, um... the books?"

Spike takes a moment to consider the question, then a sad smile seamlessly forms in his lips. "Sometimes."

"But she's... she's getting better. Right?"

"I don't know, Andrew. I think so. Maybe."

They look at each other cautiously avoiding eye contact, then Spike stands to his feet to leave.

"I'm sorry."

He turns towards Andrew. He's clutching the juice box between his shaking fingers. Spike takes an exasperated breath and puts his hands in his pockets.

"Andrew," he says carefully, "do you know what it is they took?"

"The Eye of Light," says Andrew sharply. "An artifact that is used to find any gateway for inter-dimensional travel in this dimension. Only one to be known in existence, it was hand crafted during the course of fifty-seven years by a magician that went by the name of Marko Luminos in the sixteenth century. Luminos crafted it with the help of Cyvus Vail and claimed that the orb allowed lesser-beings that sought enlightenment to travel across the Universe. His belief was that the Universe was a juxtaposition of dimensions that existed parallel to one another and that humanity should be able to look at it for what it really was. Luminos eventually disappeared. There are no official records of his demise or anything concrete, for that matter, after 1576. The Eye itself was found in Egypt in 1799 in an archaeological dig, during Napoleon's tenure in the country. It's been in one of the many vaults at the Museum of Cairo ever since."

Andrew takes a sip of his Mixed-Berries Blast, then stares at Spike, an uneasy smile on his lips.

"That's actually more information than I'd like to hear," says Spike blankly, "but, yeah, that's pretty much it."

He walks over to Andrew's side, Andrew himself following his gaze while slurping his juice-box dry.

"So you understand why Giles is a little cross with you, right?" he asks calmly. Andrew nods. "What happened on the plane?"

And so, with much reluctance on his part, Andrew tells him. Detail by excruciating detail, he goes over the course of events and tells Spike everything that happened. After he finishes, he takes a long, deep breath, and exhales in sorrowful relief.

Spike stares at him. He sees his eyes welling. The weight of his mistake is finally dawning upon Andrew, and he can't restrain his regret and misery. He has disgraced himself. Despite everything that he has done in the past to compensate for his actions prior of joining Buffy's cause in Sunnydale, he is still the whimpering little boy in third grade that trips and falls flat on his face for the whole of his class to jeer and mock at. The little boy that was always degraded for the enjoyment of school-yard bullies. The same little boy who almost three years before had killed his best friend in cold-blood, and lay whimpering at the realization that for all he had done, he was nothing. A murderer with delusions.

Then, without an ounce of consideration, Spike bursts suddenly into a fit of unrelenting laughter. Andrew looks at him shocked, and Spike, upon noticing, struggles to confine his unwelcome roaring of laughter back.

"I-I'm sorry," he says in between the laughs.

"Dude? What the hell, man?" yells Andrew angrily.

"I'm sorry," he says as he finally starts to calm down. "Oh, I'm sorry, Andrew. It's just that... you thought you were gonna lose your cherry!" He bursts into laughter. "That must've been quite a surprise, eh?"

Andrew shrugs uncomfortably. "Yeah, laugh all you want, she still's got the orb."

Spike chuckles lightly. "Yeah, she does at that," he says, slowly coming into reality. "Ah, well, if it wasn't meant to be, it wasn't meant to be, yeah?"

"Seriously, though..." he pauses to ponder, then says assuring, "that woman was so awesome. Too bad about the stabbing. Otherwise, I would have taken her in all manner of unseemly fashion, my friend." Andrew takes a long sip of his juice.

Spike scoffs. "Yeah, I'd bet at that. One question, though, just one. Don't you think that it was a little off for a girl like that to be in any way interested in anything particular that you had to say to her?"

Andrew stares at him blankly, then after a quick sip of his juice he says, "Yeah. After getting stabbed with Chinese sticks and left for dead it sort of dawned upon me."

"Well, I'm very happy you finally realized that. Because no woman that looks like that would ever want to hear about demons and ghouls from a twenty-something that still finds D&D cool."

Andrew looks at him with a somewhat terrified expression. "Really? All of them?"

Spike inhales a breath melancholy. "I'm afraid so."

Andrew scoffs resentfully. "Women."

"Yeah. Women."

For a moment they stare blankly in opposite directions. Then slowly, their eyes meet, and they are shaken out of hypnosis. Spike shrugs and turns awkwardly towards the door.

"I, uh..."

"No, of course," says Andrew calmly. "I understand."

"Yeah, well, you take care now."

Spike turns towards the door and takes a heavy step in its direction when Andrew calls from behind him.

"Yeah?"

Andrew stares at him, his small eyes glistening. He coughs uncomfortably, then says in a calm and pleading voice, "Will you read to me?"

Spike looks at table next to Andrew's bed and sees a large, hard-cover book that reads in beautiful silver letters on its front, _The Lord of the Rings. _Spike looks back at Andrew, then without uttering a single word he turns around and walks out of the room.

Andrew looks at the door at the door, slightly surprised and saddened. Then the door opens again and Spike enters gritting his teeth.

"You're one right, foul lil' bastard, you know that?"

Andrew smiles, then says with a small bow, "Many thanks, my most gracious sensei."

"Stop that!" hisses Spike with certain disgust in his voice. "Someone might hear you."

Andrew grins even wider as Spike sits beside the bed and picks the book into his lap. Andrew clings to his juice-box while Spike reads. The sun begins to settle behind the windows, but they don't notice.

It has been a long day for the great warrior. Yet, somehow, not a care in the world worries him right now.


End file.
